


Whumptober 2020 (Supernatural)

by SylvanFreckles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abusive John Winchester, Angel Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auction, Badass Castiel, Beating, Blindness, Blood, Broken Bones, Cages, Caring Sam Winchester, Castiel Lives (Supernatural), Castiel Possessing Dean Winchester, Character Death chapter 19, Chronic Pain, Collars, Cursed Jack Kline, Damn straight I brought Benny back again, Dean Winchester Has Claustrophobia, Dean Winchester Has Migraines, Drowning, Drugging, Electrocution, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode AU: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Episode: s15e15 Gimme Shelter, Everyone lives, Exhaustion, Explosions, Fire, Flashbacks, Food Poisoning, Gen, Good Sibling Sam Winchester, Gratuitous Ellen Harvelle, Grief, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucifer, Hallucinations, Head Injury, Headaches & Migraines, Held at Gunpoint, Horror, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Charlie Bradbury, Hurt Claire Novak, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Jack Kline, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Knife Wounds, Leviathans, Lucifer Possessing Castiel (Supernatural), Lucifer in the Cage (Supernatural), Mild Medical Horror, Mother Hen Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Parent Jody Mills, Physical Abuse, Pneumonia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purgatory, Restraints, Rowena is part of TFW, Sacrifice, Sam Winchester Has PTSD, Sick Sam Winchester, Sleep Deprivation, Suspense, The Cage, The Mills Home for Wayward Girls, Time Travel, Torture, Wendigo, Whipping, Whumptober 2020, angel feathers, angel possession, at least she's better than naomi, breaking or dislocating fingers, chained together, gallu, khan worm, migraine auras, mild body horror, oh look naomi's still a bitch, okay mary winchester gets a fraction of cred, pulling fingernails, s11e22 We Happy Few AU, s13e22/23 au, smoke inhalation, stop freckles from writing late at night 2020, threatening with a bat, threats to family, tied to the bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 59,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26748205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles
Summary: Crisp days, cool nights, and broken bones...it's that time again! 31 days of delicious whump for your reading pleasure. Now completed!Day Thirty-One: Today's Special: Torture (Whipping)Sammy was coming. His brother would find him. He always did.(Character death is in chapter nineteen. It's not on-screen deaths, it's conversation of canon character deaths throughout the series, as a memorial)
Relationships: Alex Jones & Jody Mills, Castiel & Crowley (Supernatural), Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Jack Kline, Charlie Bradbury & Sam Winchester, Claire Novak & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester
Comments: 107
Kudos: 157
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Let's Hang Out Sometime (Shackled)

**Author's Note:**

> I got a little confused when I was looking at the prompts for this year, so these are all based off of a main prompt + whump descriptor. For example, this first chapter, "let's hang out sometime" is the main theme of the story, and "shackles" is the whump device. Oh well, just made it more complicated for myself, but that's okay! Enjoy!

Dean was aware of a handful of things as he slowly pulled himself back to consciousness. First was the pain, always the pain. In the back of his head, like he'd been hit with something heavy, and across his ribs and stomach, like someone had kicked him after he'd gone down. And his wrists and shoulders, on top of that. His hands had been wrenched above his head, and he was slowly starting to realize that the horrible, biting pain around his wrists was a set of manacles.

Great. Knocked out, kicked around, chained up...sounded like a typical Friday night.

“Dean?”

The sound of Claire's voice bought him to full awareness with a snap that was almost painful. He slammed his eyes open, then closed them immediately with a groan as the world spun around him.

“Great, don't pass out again,” Claire complained. Yeah, she wasn't fooling anyone. She was worried.

“I'm fine,” Dean grunted. “Where are we?”

“Some kind of barn, I think,” she said. He heard a shuffle, like she tried to move, but for some reason that pulled on his wrists as she did and he let out a hiss of pain.

He forced his eyes open to look at the barn around them, and it wasn't exactly an encouraging sight. The only light came in through broken windows high on the barn's walls, too high for either of them to reach even if Claire stood on his shoulders. There were rough-looking boxes and some busted-up machinery scattered around, including a giant rusted thing that could have been some kind of harvester parked right in between them.

He could barely see Claire on the other side of the machine, but when he leaned to one side he caught a glimpse of her behind the massive engine casing. She looked about as rough as he felt—blood smeared in her loose blonde hair and down her chin, clothing torn and dirty, hands pulled above her head by a manacle connected to a chain that ran up toward the ceiling. He squinted up, finally seeing the chain that ran from Claire's wrists over a beam near the roof of the barn back down to his own. Dean immediately straightened up much as possible to give her all the slack he could.

God, the manacles already felt like they were cutting down to bone. “How long have we been here?”

Claire tried to shrug, thought better of it, and shook her head. She winced after that, then, her face going just a little paler. So. Head injury for her as well. “I've been awake for maybe ten minutes?”

Dean grunted. The last thing he remembered was going with Claire to one of the Kosher butcher shops. They'd been investigating a full-on werewolf situation—mutilated bodies with no hearts, activity increasing with the phases of the moon, the full nine yards. It was tricky, though, as these werewolves seemed to be targeting anyone who had trouble with the law for their prey. While Dean himself wasn't opposed to a little frontier justice now and then, the victims were all over the place. They ranged from a guy with multiple counts of spousal abuse on his record, to a high school kid who took her classmates' cars on joyrides without permission, to a guy suspected of credit card fraud, and so on.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment or two.

“My arms hurt,” Claire offered with a wry smile.

“Yeah, maybe we can do something about that,” Dean replied. He stared up at the chain for a second, making a few calculations. “Think you could climb up on this tractor thing?”

“How?” she demanded. “I looked at it but there's nowhere to climb up, not without hands. All the sharp parts are here,” Claire said, kicking something that gave out a metallic clang, “and the tire's higher than my head.”

“Can you grab onto the chain?”

“What?” He heard her heave out a theatrical sigh of frustration, then Claire made the chain connecting them rattle. “I can kinda get my hand around it, but what are we gonna do? Break the chain? Bring the whole roof down? I know physics aren't your thing, Dean, but I'm pretty sure we'd just pull my arms out of their sockets.”

“Maybe that was the plan,” Dean shot back teasingly. “Claire Novak, the Armless Wonder. You could do the talk-show circuit.”

She snorted at that, and he could just _feel_ her rolling her eyes. “So what's your 'plan'?” she asked.

“Well, I could probably,” Dean grunted as he twisted in place, trying to get his own hands around the chain above his head, but all the slack was on Claire's side. “I could maybe...I could pull you up, and you could walk up the tire and sit down on top of this thing? Get some of the pressure off our hands?” He'd noticed the chain was actually threaded around a junction of crossbeams, there was no way to just move around the big machine between them. One of them would have to go over, and the chain had almost no slack to it.

Claire was quiet for a second. Dean wished he could see her more clearly, to see if this was I-wonder-if-this-could-work silence or this-guy-is-insane-again silence. “You want to haul me up to the roof of this tractor thing...by my wrists?”

“Hey, it's by my wrists, too,” he protested. “Don't you have a lockpick stashed in your heel or something?”

“Oh!” Claire's voice brightened considerably at that thought. “Maybe. I don't know if it's still there, I haven't checked lately.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You. Haven't. Checked. Lately?”

“Sorry?” she sounded embarrassed, at least. “Look, lecture me on safety later, okay? Let's try your dumbass tire-walking thing.”

“This isn't over,” Dean retorted. He craned his neck up to check on the position of the chain, then twisted to look behind him to see how much space he had. “Ready?”

There was the faint _thump_ of a boot striking a tire. “Ready!”

This was going to _hurt_. Dean took a step back, bracing his legs and fighting to pull his hands down to his chest. Claire couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds, maybe one-twenty, but that weight was suddenly pulling on the sensitive flesh of his wrists where the manacles dug in. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look at the mangled mess he was no doubt making of his hands.

“I think it's working!” Claire called. “Little more, Dean, come on!”

Right. He hauled back again. Claire's weight pulled against his wrists, but he set his teeth and took another step. The chain twisted as Claire slowly climbed the harvester's massive tire. Then she hissed out a curse and the chain pulled him forward, manacles cutting in even deeper. Dean couldn't quite bite back the cry of pain as the chain swung, all of Claire's weight suddenly hanging off his bloodied arms.

“Sorry!” Claire shouted. He heard her kicking and swearing, and finally the chain was steady again and her weight eased up a little. “God, Dean, I'm so sorry, my foot slipped, I-”

“Keep going,” he growled out. She had to be close now.

He heard her huff out a loud breath, then the aching pull against his wrists started up again. Another step back, knees bent to keep his body coiled, core muscles straining to keep his arms pulled in. Then another, and Claire shouted again but this time her voice was triumphant. Dean pried one eye open to see the kid's boot flail over the top of the harvester's massive tire. With a sigh of relief he took another step back, one more mighty heave on the chain that connected them, and finally saw Claire scrambled up on the tire itself.

Dean let his hands drop and stumbled forward. His arms were numb from finger tip to elbow, and he still didn't want to look down at them. He looked up at Claire instead, at the dirt coating her face and the worry twisting her expression. “You okay?” he asked.

“Me?” Claire sounded scandalized. “You look like you went twelve rounds with box full of broken glass. Dean...your arms.”

“They'll be fine,” he shook his head. He had been planning to climb up the harvester's other tire and sit with Claire, get as much slack out of the chain as possible, but that wasn't possible now. Just leaning on the big machine seemed like enough, something to take his weight until his head stopped spinning. He could relax his arms now, at least, and finally looked down to assess the damage.

Dean immediately wished he hadn't. The manacles had cut so deeply into his wrists he was pretty sure they were embedded in his flesh. Blood had seeped down his arm to mix with the dirt there in grimy rivulets, and he could only imagine the kind of bacteria and crap he was getting in his bloodstream now. At least Cas could take care of that...once the angel found them.

“Do you think they noticed we're gone yet?” Claire asked once Dean had lowered his arms and leaned his head back.

“Sam has,” Dean replied. “We were supposed to check in after we talked to that butcher. Cas knows too, I bet.”

The kid was quiet for a second. “I...I prayed to him,” she finally said. She sounded almost ashamed, and Dean wondered (not for the first time) just what the relationship between his friend and Jimmy Novak's daughter was these days. If the two of them were getting along now, great, Claire could use a guardian angel...and Cas could use all the family he could get.

“You did?” Dean said. He didn't want to pry, not in this situation. Plenty of time to harass Claire, and Cas, about this later. Hell, they probably just texted each other memes or something anyway. Pictures of baby guinea pigs and misspelled graffiti. That sort of thing.

“Right before you woke up,” Claire answered. “You woke up as soon as I...anyway, it was like a sign or something. Like someone's really listening.”

“Well, it might take some time,” he said after a few seconds had passed. “Unless you know our exact GPS coordinates, Sammy'll have to track us without our phones.”

Claire snorted at that. “How many disgusting, rusty-ass barns can there be, right?”

“That's the spirit!” Dean leaned back against the tire to smile up at the kid, his smile growing when she rolled her eyes and ducked away to hide her own smile. “Hey, Claire?”

“Yeah?” Claire's head popped back into view. She was sitting at the top of the tire on his side, while he had moved around to lean against the wide tread and prop one foot up on a rusty bar poking out from the machine.

“Next time you ask me to hang out, don't be so literal.”

“Oh my god!”

“I mean, I figured you meant Disney movies and pumpkin spice lattes, but this?”

“Hey!” Her foot made contact with the back of his head. Not enough to hurt, just a not-quite-gentle nudge. “Pumpkin spice is awesome, and if you diss it one more time I'm telling Jody.”

“Oh, no, don't do that,” Dean gave an exaggerated shudder. “Hunter's honor. No more disrespecting pumpkin spice.”

“Good.”

“Unless Sammy drinks it.”

That got him an honest-to-god snort from the kid. “God, Dean, you're the worst,” she complained, though it was obvious she was just trying not to laugh.

He just chuckled and leaned his head back against the tire, watching the last rays of the setting sun as they faded through the barn's top window.

“It's getting dark,” Claire commented.

“They'll find us,” Dean replied. His arms, though...the numbness had pulled away and left behind red, twisting pain. Jeez. Remind him not to haul around a twenty-something kid by the skin of his wrists again.

Claire was quiet for another few minutes, but he could hear her moving around above them. “Damn,” she swore.

“What's up?”

“Don't have my lockpick. I'm an idiot.”

“It's all right,” Dean tried to reassure her. “Couldn't have picked them now anyway,” he added. His hands were a throbbing mass of pain, no way was he doing anything as delicate a picking a lock any time soon. He shifted his weight against the tire, trying to get the treads in at least a halfway decent position against his shoulders.

Things gradually grew quiet around them as time dragged on. He wasn't sure, but Claire might have fallen asleep. He almost hoped she had—he couldn't, the risk of falling over and hurting her in the process was too great. She could probably use the rest, though; the werewolves hadn't been gentle. He felt a little guilty about making her do the whole tire-climbing thing, but it had gotten Claire up to a safer perch and bought them both some slack in the chain that connected them.

Dean lost track of time, playing through his cassette collection in his head as he stared out at the filthy wall of the barn. Then it was the vinyl he'd found in the Men of Letters bunker. He'd just started on the first season of Dr. Sexy when the broken windows lit up with a flare of light from approaching headlights.

“Hey, kid,” Dean called over his shoulder. Claire grunted, yanking on the chain in frustration.

“We're still here?” she asked muzzily.

“It ain't the Four Seasons,” he replied. “Someone's coming.”

He heard her suck in a breath. “Is it them?”

Dean opened his mouth to ask which 'them' she was talking about, when one of the old, weathered doors creaked open. A flashlight beam darted inside, though Dean and Claire were too far back to be caught in the beam.

Flashlights were good. Flashlights meant humans, not werewolves.

“Dean?”

Relief flooded Dean's body and despite the pain and the bruises and the torn-up wrists he broke into a smile. “Down here, Sammy.”

The door was shoved open even further and a second light joined Sam's flashlight. This was a high-powered spotlight, and it played over the barn floor until it found the two of them at the harvester in the middle. Dean flinched back, arm up to block the light from his eyes, “Jeez. Warn a guy, huh?”

There were two sets of footsteps running toward them now. Dean tried to squint past the light, but the two figures were in too much shadow. “Cas?” he guessed.

“I'm here,” the angel's voice was tight with worry. “Claire?”

“Get him first,” Claire called out from the top of the harvester. “The chain...he's in pretty bad shape.”

Dean wanted to protest, but the beam of the spotlight centered on his hands and he heard Sam suck in a breath. The light played up the chain to the ceiling then back down, probably to Claire perched on the tire.

“Sam,” Cas said as the spotlight danced around crazily for a second. Dean could only guess the angel had been carrying the more powerful light and had shoved it unceremoniously into his brother's hands.

Cas was in front of the light now, and if Dean squinted he could make out his friend's worried face. The angel gently took hold of his forearms and moved his hands into the light, studying the rusty shackles and the wounds in Dean's wrists. “This may take a moment,” he warned. Cas rested his hands on the shackles, brow furrowed in concentration. The metal seemed to grow warm for a moment before shattering under Cas's hands and falling to the ground in a shower of fragments and rust.

That only made it hurt even worse, but before Dean could fully react Cas's hands were hovering over the wounds in his wrists. There was another surge of warmth, this one more familiar and definitely welcome, and the pain faded away into nothing as his flesh knit itself back together.

Dean held his hands up in the light, twisting them around to see the newly-healed skin. “Thanks, Cas,” he said with a sigh of relief. God, just the absence of pain was heavenly.

“Claire?” Sam had set the spotlight on the ground, and was standing by the tire with his arms held up. “I've got you, come on.”

She was rolling her eyes again, Dean just knew it, but she let Sam catch her as she slid off anyway. Now that he could get an actual look at her, Dean was a little shocked at how pale and fragile she looked. The blood on her face stood out in sharp relief to the pallor of her skin, and her wrists seemed to have fared almost as badly as his own had.

Cas was beside her before Dean could say anything. There was the same shatter as the manacles broke apart under Cas's power, the same soft glow of his grace as he healed her wounds. And if he took a little longer with Claire...if he poured more of his healing mojo into her until every last bump or scrape was mended...well, that was okay. Let the guy hover a little.

“Ready to blow this joint, kiddo?” Dean asked when Cas finally seemed to be satisfied with the amount of healing Claire had received.

“Oh, no, I thought we could spend the night,” Claire retorted. She flipped her hair over one shoulder and began sauntering toward the door.

Cas sent her a perplexed look, then looked back over at Dean.

“Sarcasm, Cas,” Dean explained. He slapped Sammy on the shoulder with a grin and followed Claire toward the exit, his long legs easily letting him catch up with her. “Hey, we should hang out again sometime.”

A smack in the arm was the only reply he got.

And okay. Maybe he deserved it.


	2. In the Hands of the Enemy (Collared)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley fails to find a competent assistant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. It's finally happened. I wrote freaking Crowley into a fic. I hope you're all satisfied.

“...I think you'll be pleased with the progress we've made, your majesty.” Higgins was saying.

His name probably wasn't Higgins. He just looked like a Higgins. Comb-over, pencil mustache, brown double-breasted suit with an actual, honest-to-hell _buttonhole rose_.

It was getting so hard to find good help these days, Crowley mused. He stared down at the selection of anti-angel restraints Higgins had laid out on the table. He'd been assigning demons to research ways to power up their current resources. Nothing was infallible, not even holy oil, but maybe with a little ingenuity they could at least strengthen what they had.

Not that demons had much in the way of ingenuity. That was Crowely's own personal hell (ha).

He realized Higgins was staring at him. “Well?” Crowley demanded.

“You'll like these, sire,” Higgins immediately jumped forward to take a set of angel cuffs off the table and hold them out for inspection. “We've inscribed the runes on the interior of the cuffs, so they can cause discomfort to the prisoner's skin as well as-”

“No,” Crowley cut off the demon's pitch, sneering down at the cuffs. “What you've done is provided a way to connect the angel's grace directly to the magic of the cuffs, letting them manipulate it even while bound.” He couldn't help but notice how many of the lesser demons tended to flinch when someone directly mentioned angels. Cowards, the lot of them. “Next.”

“Uh...these...” Higgins scrambled to put the first useless pair of cuffs to one side and picked up a second. “Well, sire, as you can see, we've overlaid some powerful Nordic magic with the...the...celestial-binding runes, so-”

“No,” Crowley nearly sprained his eyes rolling them too hard. “What you've done is compromise the initial warding by intersecting the lines with...is that a rune for fertility?”

If Higgins could have blushed, he would have. “We were told it was a rune for increasing the power of binding magic.”

“Is that what they're calling it.”

“W-well, Sire, I think...” Higgins was growing more and more flustered.

Crowley pressed on. “And who, pray tell, told you this?”

“Y-y-you see...”

“Higgins?”

Higgins blinked at him, confused. “Sire, my name is Bel-”

The words died in his throat around the angel blade Crowley shoved through it. He had no use for incompetents, particularly incompetents that bought spells from scam-artists druids instead of researching their own work. Oh yes, Amaranth's little green fingerprints were all over these fertility spells, she must have gotten quite the giggle out of selling such a spell to a demon. He'd have to deal with her later.

He pulled the angel blade out of Higgins' dead flesh and studied it with a critical eye. They'd gone and etched up the blade, too. Useless, that...an angel blade was already powerful enough to kill an angel. All they'd done was carve enough Babylonian pictographs into the blade to weaken the alloy and make a weapon that was likely to snap if used too roughly.

Crowley dropped the angel blade onto the table with an exaggerated sigh and moved down to the last item. This one actually had some promise, he realized as he held it up to study. It was a collar, the kind that closed by a spell so it made a seamless band of metal. Someone had tried adding more runes to the existing anti-angel ones, but this time they had etched them into the negative space so that none of the original runes had so much as a line out of place.

“This is actually interesting,” Crowley remarked to Higgins' corpse. “You should have lead with this one. Wednesday?”

The demon who'd been leaning on the wall by the door stood to attention. Wednesday wasn't her real name, but she'd shown up in a meatsuit that was wearing a black dress with an old-fashioned collar and long, dark hair twisted back into two pigtails. What else was he supposed to call her?

“Your majesty?” Wednesday asked.

“Do we have anyone to test this on?” he asked, holding the collar up for her to see.

She smiled a wicked smile, dark eyes practically glittering. “Oh, yes, sire. I believe you will be most pleased.” Crowley raised his eyebrows as the woman swept out of the room. Demons. Always so dramatic.

He didn't have long to wonder, however, as Wednesday soon returned with a prisoner in tow.

An angelic prisoner.

A familiar angelic prisoner.

By all that was unholy, his demons had actually gone out and captured _Castiel_. And on _purpose_!

Wednesday was beaming at him, one had clamped around the angel's arm. Castiel was bound up with angel cuffs around his wrists and a sigiled chain trapping his upper arms to his sides. They'd gagged him with a piece of cloth but he wasn't blindfolded, which was why Crowley found himself the target of a laser-focused glare from the angel's bright blue eyes.

“Sire?” Wednesday was pushing the angel forward.

His position as King of Hell was strenuous at best right now, and anyway he wasn't sure he wanted to invoke the wrath of Moose and Squirrel if he harmed their pet angel. He stepped back instead, gesture Wednesday toward the chair in the middle of the chamber. “Be my guest,” he replied smoothly.

If he didn't actually _hurt_ the feathery little menace they couldn't _actually_ blame him, could they?

Wednesday took far too much glee in shoving the angel down into the chair and buckling the various restraints. They were warded for angels and demons alike, which meant the wardings themselves weren't particularly powerful. It was probably enough, however, seeing as how the angels had lost some of their holy power after the Fall.

“Your majesty?” Wednesday had finished with the last of the restraints and was standing to attention behind the chair. She was still smiling; an eerie grin that reminded him of her namesake.

Crowley looked at the collar in his hands for a moment as though thinking something over, then held it out to Wednesday. “As a treat,” he suggested.

For a moment he thought she was going to burst into flames from sheer joy. Wednesday took the collar from him with a rapturous look on her face and ran her fingers over the runes to separate it. It hinged open into two half-circles of gleaming metal, and Wednesday stared down at it in reverence before turning to the angel she'd left restrained.

Standing back a ways, arms folded, Crowley was almost impressed. He might have to give Wednesday some more responsibilities in his organization, if this was how she handled herself.

Then she punched the angel in the face, grabbed a handful of his hair, and yanked his head back to snap the collar around his neck.

Crowley rolled his eyes heavenward, then realized what he was doing and glared at the opposite wall instead. Wednesday turned back to him as though seeking his approval and he managed a smirk and a shooing wave of his hand to encourage her to continue.

“How's that feel, halo?” Wednesday taunted.

Oh hell. She hadn't even taken the gag out.

She slapped Castiel. Backhanded, at least. Hard enough to actually knock the angel's head to the side. Normally Crowley would be enjoying seeing one of his enemies brought down so low, but it just...he didn't...exactly...completely hate this one. Plus the Winchesters would be impossible to handle if their pet kitten got ruffled.

Wednesday was dancing back and forth, getting more cheap shots against Castiel. She was insulting him, demanding information, taunting him with his capture...with the gag still firmly in place. Crowley cleared his throat.

She jumped to attention so fast Crowley could almost feel it. “This is a test of the collar's capabilities,” he explained. “Maybe it's time to unlock the restraints.”

For just a moment, Wednesday's brace facade faltered. “M-my liege?”

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “He's powerless with the collar on,” he replied blandly. “Unless you're doubting...?”

“No, sire!” Wednesday whipped back around, braids flying out behind her. “Of course, we should test it without the restraints!”

As she fumbled with the buckles on the chair, Crowley made sure to step back to a safe distance. While they were right in saying Castiel's power would be limited by the warding on the collar, what most of the demons seemed to forget was that angels had spent literally millennia being trained for hand-to-hand combat.

Wednesday snapped the last of the restraints free, and Castiel lunged. He grabbed her by the neck and shoulder, using his rising momentum to whirl her against the wall. She crashed into it with a screech of rage, but by the time she had gathered herself to charge again he'd already reached the overly-sigiled angel blade on the table. Castiel dodged her first swipe, ducked under the second, and drove the blade up into the space below her ribs. Wednesday choked for a moment, eyes sparking, before her empty corpse joined Higgins' on the floor.

Castiel rose to his full height and ripped the gag out of his mouth. “Crowley.”

Crowley started to clap, slow and sarcastic. “You seem to have murdered my bodyguard,” he announced dryly.

The angel glowered and stooped down to pull the blade free from Wednesday's body. It snapped, as Crowley thought it would, and Castiel was left with nothing but a broken hilt to glare at.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Crowley offered. He took one step closer to the angel, daintily sliding around Higgins.

Castiel moved back warily, broken hilt brought up in defense. His powers were still blocked by the collar, Crowley knew. This was all a show.

“Come, come,” Crowley tutted. “If I had wanted you actually _harmed_ I had all manner of opportunities. Instead, I presented you with a chance to escape that will spare both your health and my reputation.”

“What escape?” Castiel demanded.

“You killed my guard,” Crowley suggested, gesturing at Wednesday. “Then you overpowered me and escaped through the back hall and up to the surface.”

“Why?”

“Castiel, really!” Crowley threw his hands up in frustration. “Do you think I want the Winchesters after me for the rest of their days? This is purely an act of self-defense. You get to go free, I get to live, and the rest of hell doesn't have to know we had an arrangement!”

For some ridiculous reason, the angel seemed to think this over for a few moments. This was going nowhere. Crowley had to turn the screw. “Besides...what could I possibly do to you that could be worse than what you do to yourself?”

Castiel actually flinched at that, staring down at the broken angel blade in his hand. “All right,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you forgot one thing.”

Before Crowley could react, Castiel was across the room and slamming him in the face with the hilt of the broken angel blade. Crowley stepped back with a cry, hand flying up to cradle the bruised flesh. “What was that for?”

“Your story,” Castiel said—nearly sneered. “Can't risk your reputation.”

By the time Crowley had wiped the blood out of his eyes, ruining a silk Armani handkerchief in the process, Castiel was already gone.

Crowley glared at the mess around him—the useless gadgets, the corpses, the broken lock on the door to his private back hall. Someone was going to clean this up...and it wasn't going to be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you tomorrow!


	3. My Way or the Highway (Held at Gunpoint)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (season 2 fic) A group of rogue hunters capture the Winchesters in hope of forcing Sam to use his psychic abilities for their benefit, and they’re not afraid to use Dean as leverage.

“So...rumor has it you got some kind of second sight, Sam,” Travis commented. He was tall and wiry, though not as tall as Sam. Years spent as a hunter had left his skin tanned and course, though his dark eyes were still bright with intelligence.

Sam froze for just a second too long and Dean kicked his ankle under the table. “What makes you say that?” he finally asked, trying to hide his nervousness with a sip of beer.

Travis and his two friends had pulled into town a few hours ago, to handle the salt-and-burn Sam and Dean had finished earlier in the day. They didn't all know each other but they all knew Bobby, which had seemed like a good enough reason to get acquainted over drinks. Now Sam was wishing they had left town after the job instead of waiting until morning.

“You been watching too much late-night TV,” Dean teased with a hearty laugh. It was too hearty to Sam's ears, but hopefully Travis and his friends wouldn't notice. “What kind of moron fed you a story like that?”

“Word gets around,” Travis shrugged. He leaned back in his chair and studied the brothers with a critical eye. “Trouble is, nobody knows what's true and what's just a fairy tale.”

“Yeah, well, a little advice?” Dean had already dug out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table to cover the last round. “Don't believe everything you hear. C'mon Sam.”

Sam was all too eager to abandon his half-drunk beer and follow Dean out of the bar. He heard Travis and his friends burst out into laughter as soon as the Winchester were near the door, but tried to ignore them and just move on. It wouldn't take long to pack up and they could be back on the road.

They stepped out into the washed-out light from the bar's neon sight, the night air crisp and bracing. There weren't too many people out and about right now, thanks to the haunting they'd taken care of earlier, so it wasn't too surprising that the parking lot was practically empty.

Then someone struck. Sam was barely aware of movement in his peripheral vision before a burlap sack was shoved over his head and strong hands fisted in the back of his jacket to spin him off-balance and slam him against the wall of the bar. Judging by the muted curses he imagined Dean had received the same treatment. He tried to fight back, but someone was wrenched on the ties at the mouth of the bag, half-strangling Sam in the process. He flailed up feebly and tried to twist his fingers in the ties, but it was no good.

His captor drove a knee into his stomach, which doubled him over, then kicked his feet out from under him. Sam tried to fight against the attacker but his hands were wrenched behind him and bound up with a piece of twine that cut into his skin viciously.

“Good work.” It was muffled by the bag, but Sam was pretty sure that was Travis's voice.

“We just need the tall one, right?” Sam's captor asked. He'd planted a knee against the small of Sam's back to keep him down, one hand on the back of Sam's neck to force his head to be still.

“You never just take one Winchester,” Travis argued. “Connie learned the hard way, back when this one was still working with the old man.” There was the sound of an impact and a soft grunt—Travis had probably kicked Dean. “Put 'em in the van.”

Rough hands hauled Sam to his feet and he struggled against them, though it was futile as a vehicle roared up and he was shoved into a rough cargo space. Dean landed beside him a second later, one elbow hitting Sam's belly right where his kidnapper had kneed him. It hurt like hell, but he'd take it over his brother facing an uncertain fate. Judging by the way these guys were talking...it didn't seem like they'd leave a witness behind.

The growl of the engine filled the space around them as their captors took off to parts unknown. Sam tried to keep track of the number of turns the van made, but between the recklessness of the driver and the bag over his head muffling his perspective Sam lost track.

They screeched to a halt after maybe twenty minutes of driving, and Sam heard the doors slam open before he was gripped under the shoulders and hauled unceremoniously to his feet. He was propelled forward a few steps, then forced to his knees before the bag was torn from his head.

Travis was looking down at them, a smug grin splitting his face. “Just thought this might be a more private place to talk.”

Beside Sam, Dean let out a growl. “Listen here, you son of a bitch-”

“No, you listen,” Travis snapped. “We don't have time for throwing threats and promises back and forth, so I'm gonna give it to you straight, Sammy.” Travis pulled a gun out of the back of his pants and leveled it at Dean's head. “You're gonna work with us, or we're gonna see what's in big brother's empty head.”

Cold horror filled Sam's gut. They hadn't taken Dean because they wanted both Winchesters for something...they'd taken him to force Sam's hand.

“Well?” Travis demanded when Sam didn't answer. He took the few steps over to Dean and twisted his free hand in Dean's collar, dragging him around to face Sam with the gun pressed to his temple. “Whaddya say, Sammy?”

Dean was subtly trying to shake his head, and when Travis noticed he clocked Dean on the temple with the grip of the revolver he was holding. “I'm counting to three, Sam.”

“Wait, wait, please,” Sam tried to edge forward, but one of Travis's partners was behind him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Just...just give me a second. What do you need me for?”

“I'm not hearing a yes,” Travis warned. He shifted his grip so that the gun was pressed to the base of Dean's skull. “Exit wounds aren't pretty, Sammy. Is this how you want to remember you brother?”

“I don't even know what you want!” Sam pleaded. “I can't...I can't agree to something if I don't know what it is!”

“One...”

“Travis, come on,” Sam tried to pull himself free, but the grip on his shoulders tightened.

“Two...”

“Yes!” Sam shuddered, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see his brother's expression. “Whatever...whatever you want. Just don't hurt him.” They only had each other left. He just couldn't handle it if something happened to Dean after everything they'd lost.

“Was that so hard?” Travis sneered. He released Dean and shoved him forward, into Sam. Sam leaned into his brother, nearly shaking with relief. “Now, lemme show you what we have planned.”

There were some crates in a pile a few feet away, with what looked like an old drafting table covered in a dust cloth. Travis whipped the cloth away with a flourish and gestured to the plans that were tacked up on the table.

Sam stared at them. It was a set of blueprints and a section of the city map, but it made no sense. Why would hunters need their help like this? Why take them at gunpoint and threaten Dean to get Sam's cooperation? They'd asked about his psychic powers...was that connected?

“You've got to be kidding me,” Dean groaned. “A bank? You kidnap us at gunpoint, drag us all the way out here...to help you knock over a bank?”

“He doesn't need to talk,” Travis said over his shoulder.

Sam tried to protest but he was shoved to the side as one of Travis's men caught Dean by the shoulder and laid him out with a punch. While Dean was dazed from the blow, a rough gag was shoved between his teeth and tied behind his head.

“We have our plans,” Travis continued as soon as his goons were finished. “We just don't know which ones will work.” He beckoned with his head and the man behind Sam hoisted him to his feet to drag him over to the drafting table. Now Sam could see different routes highlighted on the map and the notations on the blueprints.

“I don't understand,” he said. What did they want him to do? Help them plan a bank heist?

Travis rolled his eyes. “We want to know which plans will work.”

Sam looked over at him, mouth working as he tried to come up with an answer. “I...I still don't understand.”

Practically growling, Travis forced his head back around to look at the plans. “You're the psychic, boy. We want to know which of these plans will work the best.”

It was like a pit had opened beneath his feet. Not only had Travis and his men somehow found out about Sam's gift...they wanted him to use it for something impossible. As far as they could figure, the only visions he got were connected to the other psychic kids, or at least similar phenomenon. No way was it so specific that he could look at a map and a bank blueprint to direct an armed robbery. “It...it doesn't work that way,” he tried to explain in a small voice.

Travis sighed theatrically. “Boys?”

“No!” Sam twisted around in time to see one of Travis's men kick Dean in the gut. Two others joined him, stomping at his legs and back.

“Sam,” Travis tapped the papers on the table. “The sooner you give us what we want the sooner I call them off.”

Sam stared at the wiry man in front of him, then risked a glance over at Dean. Dean had managed to curl up to protect himself as best as he could, but with the hits he'd already taken and his hands tied behind his back he was at their mercy. Sam swallowed and forced himself to study the plans. Maybe he could at least pick out the one that had the least chance for collateral damage and go from there.

“There, your second plan,” he said, gesturing at the papers with his chin. “On the map the blue route...the one that goes through the construction zone.”

“Hmm...” Travis leaned around to look at the map, as though his men weren't beating Dean just a few feet away. “But the green route is much more direct.”

Sam's mind was whirling, his mouth moving almost on instinct. “But it goes through a school zone. If you plan to hit the bank at two pm it should be easiest to get in and out, and your getaway would take you past the elementary school right when it lets out. If you go by the construction zone you can avoid the slower traffic, and since they're replacing street lights the traffic cameras will be down at a few of the intersections, you can plant a replacement car there and swap out in a dead area.”

Travis grinned and clapped Sam on the back. “Was that so hard?”

“Make them stop,” Sam pleaded. “I did what you asked, make them stop.”

Shaking his head, Travis raised one hand. The men beating on Dean all retreated, leaving the older Winchester a bloodied mess on the floor.

“We still need to go through the bank plans, Sam,” Travis warned as Sam tried to stand up to go to his brother. “Don't make me call them back.”

Sam swallowed and turned back to the drafting table. He had to do this...had to fix this somehow so that his brother wasn't in danger. He just didn't know how.

*** * ***

“Time to load up!” Travis announced. Sam nearly crumpled in relief. His legs were asleep from being on his knees for so long as he and Travis had pored over the bank plans, and he still hadn't gotten to check on his brother (though he'd heard Dean groaning through his gag so at least the older Winchester was still alive).

The plan was just complicated enough that maybe Travis wouldn't notice the holes in it until he was inside the bank. Sam had never talked so fast in his life, spinning out a long, complicated description of bank procedures and guards on duty. But it had been enough to convince Travis, and now Sam was being shoved back into the back of the cargo van as the other men loaded up the gear they'd need. He almost protested, but then Dean was heaved in beside him.

He looked terrible. One side of Dean's eyes was swollen shut, the gag had been pulled so tight it cut into the corners of his mouth, and his nose was definitely broken. He slumped against Sam with a low moan and Sam shifted around to take as much of his brother's weight as he could. Tears stung his eyes and he fought to blink them away—no use giving Travis or his goons any more ammunition.

Travis hopped into the back of the van with the brothers and two of his goons, the other two in the front to drive and navigate with a grill separating them from the cargo compartment.

“Piece of cake, right?” Travis said, laughing to himself. He sat at the back, against the rear doors, while the two goons sat against the grate at the front.

Sam stared at Travis over Dean's head. His only hope would be that the men botched the robbery so badly that they were all arrested. Even if the cops found Dean's warrant instead of treating them like kidnapping victims, he'd at least get medical treatment at the prison. There was a catch in his brother's breathing that made Sam think some of his ribs were broken, and he was worried that Travis would find something else to take out on Dean.

“So. Sammy. How are we doing?” Travis asked.

“Huh?” Sam blinked at him. “What...uh, what do you mean?”

Travis let out a sigh. “The plan, Sam. How's the plan?”

“It's, uh...it's good?”

“Yes, but did you see it?”

Shit. Sam froze for just a second too long, feeling his pulse pound in his ears. “Of-of course,” he stammered. “Yeah, it's great. Great plan.”

Travis was climbing to his feet, though he couldn't stand up straight in the van. “Sammy, what have we learned about lying?”

“What? No!” Sam twisted up to his knees, fighting to put himself between Travis and Dean. “I'm not lying. The future...the future is too fluid to predict accurately, but this plan has the best chance of working!”

“I'm not asking for the best chance,” Travis sneered. He shoved Sam away with a brutal kick, sending the younger Winchester crashing into the two goons at the front of the cargo compartment. “I'm asking for victory.”

“I can't guarantee that!” Sam protested, though he knew it was useless. They were never going to get out of this alive. “Travis...no one could guarantee absolute success! This plan...this plan is the best one I could come up with, and it's good! It will work.”

“I don't believe you,” Travis called over his shoulder. He had Dean by the front of his shirt now, dragging him to the rear doors of the van. He shoved one of the doors open, wind snatching at their hair and clothes and stirring up loose papers inside the van. “I warned you what could happen to big brother, Sam.”

“No, don't do this,” Sam pleaded. The goons were holding him back now as Travis hauled Dean in front of the door, both hands twisted in Dean's jacket to hold him in place in the open door. For an instant Sam and Dean's eyes met, and Sam felt like his guts were being twisted in on themselves. Not like this. Not over some stupid bank heist.

“Say good-bye, Sammy!” Travis taunted.

“ _Dammit, Jake, hit the brakes!_ ”

The sharp cry from the front of the van startled them all for just a second, then the van screamed to a halt with the shriek of metal-on-metal and the jarring impact as they ran into something. Sam was slammed into the grate separating the cargo from the driver, and Travis and Dean were sent flying into the cargo compartment.

Dean crashed into Sam, and even though his brother's shoulder his hit sternum hard enough leave one hell of a bruise Sam could have sobbed with relief. He'd knocked his head against the grating and was sure there was blood in his hair, they were still helpless in the hands of their enemies, but Dean was here and alive and that was all that mattered.

Then the door of the van was being torn open and rough hands were pulling Travis and his men out.

“Travis Jones, I oughta skin you alive. What the hell were you thinking?”

Sam blinked over Dean's head, seeing a very familiar face framed in the open door of the van. “Ellen?”

She already had a knife in her hands and was gently cutting the gag away from Dean's face. “Bobby called. Said this idiot had been asking the wrong questions and giving him a bad feeling. Max and I were on business in the area anyway, so he asked us to check on you.”

Behind Ellen was another woman, this one with short-cropped bright red hair sticking up in spikes, and more jewelry on her face than most people wore on their entire bodies. Ellen saw his look and rolled her eyes. “Baby shower. You boys okay?”

“You're my hero,” Dean muttered into Sam's shoulder as Ellen cut away the twine that bound his wrists. “I was almost road chow.”

Ellen finished sawing through the twine, but instead of helping Dean out of the van she coaxed him away from Sam just enough to lie down before turning to free the younger Winchester's hands. “Been looking for you two for a couple hours, didn't think we'd make it in time. Luckily Max's wife drives a tank, don't think this piece of junk even scratched the paint on her monster.”

“Travis...” Sam began.

“We'll take care of him,” Ellen said reassuringly. “I'll help Max and Julie pack them up to haul them to the city limits, then we'll go take care of the two of you.”

Sam hesitated. The twine binding his wrists finally broke and he brought his hands around to gently rub the life back into the bruised skin. He didn't want to kill ordinary humans, but the thought of someone like Travis out there who could hurt them again didn't sit right either.

“Hey,” Ellen had a hand on his shoulder, gently bringing him around to look at her. “Your daddy had a lot of pull in the community. Once word gets around what Travis did to you boys, they won't be able to get a decent job again.”

He let her guide him back to sit against the grating, shifting Dean over enough to put his head on Sam's leg. “I'll be back in a second, honey,” Ellen promised. “Soon as I get Max and Julie on their way.”

Sam nodded, the adrenaline fading to leave exhaustion in its wake. He didn't want to close his eyes, for fear that his usual nightmares would be replaced by the image of Travis threatening to throw Dean's battered body out of the back of the van.

“I'm okay, Sammy,” Dean whispered, reaching up to rest a hand on Sam's arm.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam replied. He finally did close his eyes, one hand on Dean's chest, just over his heart. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you check on my profile you can find a fic titled "Hit the Road", which is a discarded fic for this same prompt. Which is why there is Gratuitous Ellen Harvelle at the end. She was in the original idea, I couldn't just leave her out!
> 
> On to the next!


	4. Running Out of Time (Caged)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowena infiltrates an auction house to retrieve something that was taken from the Winchesters--the angel Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I'm not trying to bring back a different character every chapter.

Rowena swept into the hall, chin held high, turning heads as she went. All that the other guests at the auction would be able to see was a glamour meant to make her appear more attractive (as if she needed that), when it was all a ruse to hide the small bluetooth earpiece.

Sam Winchester had insisted on it. Rowena had tried to argue that first, she could handle herself; and second, she had a plethora of spells that would provide a more dependable communication link back to the hunters waiting in the van. But no. Dean wouldn't trust anything she could “brew up” (despite Rowena being their only choice for this mission), and dear Sam had been worried she would overextend her powers.

That was as laughable as using a glamour spell to hide a bluetooth earpiece. Human technology had advanced to the point where it eclipsed some of the older arcane arts, and thus as she entered the auction hall Rowena could see that half of the other guests were on their smart phones in one way or another. One more glamorous woman talking to an invisible assistant would have gone unnoticed.

The hall itself was stunning. Nothing like the ghastly hall Plutus had conjured up for his little peddler's show, this one had class. There were caterers circling with canapes and drinks, tinkly music coming from unseen speakers, and tasteful display cards of the items up for bid. Rowena accepted a flute of champagne and slowly circulated through the room, pretending to exam the display cards.

“Oh, they have the Grimoire of Loraine,” she murmured. “I thought that was lost during the French witch hunts.”

“ _You're not here for a shopping spree, you know_ ,” Dean's voice growled in her ear.

“Settle down, dearie,” Rowena tutted. “Or should I have stomped in, stopped at the front row, and sat with a frown on my face while I waited? You said I should be inconspicuous.”

“ _He's just worried, Rowena,_ ” Sam broke in. “ _We all are_.”

Rowena made a noncommittal noise and took another sip of champagne. Of course she was worried, too, but it wouldn't help her disguise to let it show. “This is interesting,” she commented, leaning closer to a display card for an antique Egyptian necklace. “Oh dear. Typical man. Hatshepsut had plenty of power on her own without an enchanted necklace. This was obviously made for another pharaoh's concubine.”

She ignored the Winchesters' further protestations and kept circling the room, murmuring comments about the articles she found. The rest of the items were fairly mundane—a fist-sized red diamond called Lucifer's Heart, primitive talismans supposedly from a witch in Maryland who had lured hundreds of hikers to their deaths before her demise, the key to the Voynich manuscript.

There was no card for the last item that would be auctioned tonight, but Rowena knew word had gotten around enough that it needed no card. Or, rather, _he_ needed no card.

“ _Any sign of him?_ ” Dean demanded.

“Patience,” Rowena cooed. “They won't bring him out yet. They'll build up to it. There has to be a sense of the theatrical with these things.”

The music was steadily growing softer and the caterers were vanishing into the back room, signaling that the auction was about to begin. Rowena took her place in a gilded velvet chair, hands folded primly in her lap. There were about two dozen visitors all together, mostly witches or demigods as far as she could tell, though she had seen the telltale blue swirls of a Djinn on one guest.

“My good friends!” the auctioneer, an ancient mage named Alexei who didn't look a day over twenty-five, called out as he extended his hands in welcome. He showed none of Plutus' scorn for the process, clearly enjoying the pageantry of the event as much as his anticipated profit. “How blessed we are to gather together again on such an auspicious night!”

This auction was only held once every seven years, on the autumnal equinox. If they failed in their mission tonight, it might be seven more years until they even had a chance to try again. Rowena casually flicked open the fan she'd brought—in the same blue and cream silk as her gown, of course—and gently fanned her face as though the entire evening was just another social event for her.

The first item was brought up, the red diamond called Lucifer's Heart. Alexei didn't require the same sort of payment as Plutus had. Treasures and rarities were accepted, of course, but he could be swayed by money or valuables in large enough quantities. Rowena had a page from the Book of the Dead as her bartering item tonight (they wouldn't hand over the book, of course, but she'd had to provide some kind of proof that she was here as a buyer and not just to watch).

She watched as the bidding on the diamond circled around three people. It was ridiculous, really...something like that would have no actual link to Lucifer and no real magical potential. With bored interest she saw the person who had won the bidding—a man with mismatched eyes who was so pale his skin seemed to glow under the stage lights—be taken to a side room to discuss the final details of the purchase.

The auction dragged on. Rowena bid on a few items here and there, partly to keep her disguise up, but mostly to hear Dean splutter a protest every time. Apparently they weren't lending her the bunker's exceptional library of grimoire so she could buy herself a red jaguar throne, regardless of whether or not it would match her apartment.

Finally, with less than half an hour until midnight (and the end of the equinox, which would mean the end of the auction) the gavel was brought down to signal that the last visible item had sold. Rowena forced herself to remain calm, to settle in her chair, to not look any more eager than her fellow guests (though, truth be told, some of them looked rather excited).

Alexei was back at the podium, his dark hair shining in the stage lights. “Well, friends, it seems we have come to the end of our little event tonight. As I'm sure you're aware, we have one final item up for auction. He came to us as a surprise, we were under the impression his kind had all gone back to heaven.”

Rowena rolled her eyes. They had heard a rumor that Alexei was planning to auction off a Hand of God, and that was just too dangerous. His warehouse was normally kept in a pocket dimension that could only be accessed on the autumnal equinox every seven years, when he held his auction, but Castiel had theorized that an angel could have flown in had they known the location.

She had known the location, but the angels had lost their wings long ago...so they tried a transport spell instead. She could only assume Alexei had angel traps in his warehouse, as Castiel hadn't been able to activate the other half of the spell to return. Then the rumors had started. Alexei had an angel. Alexei was putting an angel up for bid.

A glance at the clock had her clenching her free hand in agitation. They had nineteen minutes until midnight, until Castiel would be locked away for seven years. The plan was for her to try to win Castiel outright, but if that didn't work Sam and Dean were waiting in the parking lot (armed with witch-killing bullets, the Colt, and a crossbow loaded with darts made of silver and holy wood).

“...but I see we're short on time,” Alexei continued. “So, please allow me to introduce the final item in tonight's auction!”

He clapped his hands and the curtain at the back of the stage slowly rolled away. Rowena bit down on a gasp, though as the guests around her had started to murmur in surprise and pleasure she really hadn't needed to bother.

They didn't drag Castiel out, nothing so brutal. He was in a cage. Alexei beckoned to a couple of men in dark suits and they rolled the cage forward, under the spotlights. The cage was too small, barely tall enough for the angel to sit upright, and close enough that if he sat in the exact center the bars would only be an inch or so away from his broad shoulders.

“Now, friends, I know he isn't much to look at,” Alexei said, walking around the cage and resting one hand on the bars. “Trust me, I didn't believe it either. But we have ways of confirming these things.”

There was a ripple of laughter through the crowd. Rowena bit her lip and studied Castiel's hunched figure. He'd been stripped of his outer layers of clothing, and the once-white dress shirt he usually wore was crumpled and stained with both blood and some kind of dark, foamy liquid. His face was pale and haggard, but his eyes still held a hint of defiance. She met his gaze across the room, and was relieved he didn't show a flicker of recognition. Rowena was sure he had seen her, but probably assumed she was part of a rescue party and didn't want to give her away.

“All right, bring him out. I'm sure our friends are anxious for their final auction,” Alexei ordered. He stepped back to the podium, half-turning to watch the other men drag the angel out of the cage.

One of the men pulled a heavy key out of his pocket and unlocked the door on the side of the cage. He leaned down to wrap one hand around Castiel's arm and bodily pull the angel up and out. Rowena could now see that Castiel had heavy cuffs on his wrists and ankles, connected together with chains, which hampered his movements greatly.

But not greatly enough. Castiel seemed to stumble against the guard who was pulling him out, then he twisted and struck the guard in the chin, before looping the chain from his manacles around the guard's neck.

Rowena rose to her feet with the rest of the crowd, feigning a similar gasp of horror even though she was secretly cheering. Castiel bore the guard down to the floor while Alexei cried for more guards to help subdue the angel. There was an audible _crack_ and the guard Castiel was fighting went limp.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, fighting to keep the tears back. Now that she could see him more clearly, poor Castiel's back was a mess of torn flesh and blood and more of that mystery black liquid. It had to be a spell of some kind, either something that had helped them identify him as an angel or something to help subdue and control him.

More guards had hurried to the scene, one uncoiling a whip from his belt. He lay into the angel viciously, tearing bright red lines into Castiel's already wounded flesh before the angel could even struggle away from the guard he'd killed. Castiel was silent through all of this, but it seemed whatever strength he'd been able to muster in that first attack was failing him as the whip tore into him again and again.

Another guards ran up to Alexei, pressing a small stone into his hand. Alexei nodded and turned back to face the audience. “Friends! I apologize for this brutal display,” he announced, his words punctuated by the sharp cracks from the whip. “It would appear Jeremy has paid for his negligence, however.” There was another titter of laughter from the crowd, but when Rowena cast a quick look around she could see that much of the audience's delight at bartering for an angel had been subdued.

“They're not impossible to tame, you know,” Alexei continued. He held up the small stone his guard had given him, and with a slight furrow of concentration from Alexei a set of runes lit up the surface of the stone. Castiel let out a sharp cry, the first sound he had made despite the brutal whipping, and when Rowena looked at him she now saw the collar around his neck lighting up with the same runes.

The guard who had been whipping him took a step back and two others rushed in to untangle Castiel's chains from the dead guard's throat and haul him to his feet. He hung between them limply, clearly too weak to fight back between the whipping and the runes on the collar.

Rowena cast an anxious glance at the clock. Thirteen minutes left.

“Right, well, of course,” Alexei said as he carefully walked around the podium to get closer to the angel. “As you might expect, our friend here is too dangerous to simply auction off like another priceless relic.”

There was another murmur through the crowd, and Rowena knew that many of them had not been expecting that. Some of them, particularly the demigods in attendance, might have wanted an angel for themselves to enact some kind of vengeance. Others would have simply harvested him for spell ingredients.

She wanted to take him home to his brothers.

“But, as you all know, an angel has other value,” Alexei explained. “So for the final item tonight, I am auctioning off a set of angel feathers, as many as we can harvest from this creature. Then, for the next seven years, we will let him replenish what he can and we will have more to offer. And thus the power of heaven itself can be at your fingertips.” He held one hand up, rubbing his fingers together, his smile nearly blinding.

“Now, angel, if you would so please,” Alexei held his hand out, stepping out of the way to give the audience a clear view of Castiel's wings.

Castiel managed to drag his head up, face creased in pain, eyes fixed on Alexei. Rowena couldn't hear him from where she stood—and the collar could have blocked his voice—but she could clearly see his lips mouth the word 'no'.

Alexei let out a theatrical sigh. “Still stubborn. Well, we are not without our little tricks.” He held the stone up again, staring at it as though to channel his magical power. The runes seemed to swirl and shift, changing through text and color. They finally lit up with a bright silver light, and with a start Rowena realized the spell on the stone, and the collar, was now in Enochian. Castiel pulled against the men holding him, face distorted in pain and mouth open in a silent scream.

There was a sound like tearing cloth, a smell like the air after a thunderstorm, and a set of great black wings erupted from Castiel's back.

They weren't as spectacular as before the fall, Rowena knew. If Castiel's wings had been whole and healthy they would have filled the entire stage and spread out along the walls of the auction hall. As it was the great, bedraggled appendages arched limply up from his back, ragged feathers fluttering beneath the stage lights.

“Shall we start the bidding?” Alexei prompted. Ten minutes to midnight.

Rowena forced out a laugh. High, sharp, and mocking. Alexei paused for a moment and sought her out in the crowd. “Madame?”

“You've got to be joking,” Rowena said, injecting as much scorn into her voice as she could. She snapped her fan shut and swept toward the stage, chin in the air. “ _That's_ an angel?”

Alexei frowned down at her. “Madame, I assure you, there is no doubt.”

Rowena sniffed and climbed up the few short steps to the stage's floor. “Just look at it,” she tutted, hands on her hips. “What did you do to the poor thing?”

“I must insist,” Alexei began, “for your own safety, you should return to your seat, madame.”

“With all these strong young men to protect me?” Rowena ran one hand down one of the guard's biceps, making an appreciative noise. “Besides, you've beaten the poor dear half to death. And just look at these wings,” she continued, carefully running a hand over the ruffled plumage of Castiel's right wing. As she'd hoped, a twisted feather loosened and came off in her hand. She palmed it and turned back to Alexei.

“Madame, please.” Alexei had left the stage and approached her now, one arm held out as though to guide her away from the stage.

Eight minutes to midnight. Rowena held her hand up, the dark feather glittering as she focused her will on it. Alexei gave a shout of protest and lunged, but Rowena was already whispering the word of power that would send a concussive force out from her body.

As she'd hoped, the feather channeled and strengthened her magic, and the blast took out not only Alexei and his guards but the other patrons gathered for the auction. Only Rowena was left standing—and Castiel, she noticed with some satisfaction. Probably because the feather had come from his wing.

He wasn't very steady on his feet, so Rowena hurried to his side and slipped under one of his arms, although her dainty frame wouldn't provide too much support. The feather was smoking in her hand, slowly crumbling to ashes and dust, but she pressed it against the horrible collar on his throat and let a surge of magic burn away the runes until the collar, too, was nothing but ash.

Around them Alexei and his guards were beginning to pick themselves up, and the crowd in the audience hall was stirring. Six minutes to midnight.

“Samuel?” Rowena called. She hoped the surge of magic hadn't fried the bluetooth, and to her relief it crackled back to life.

“ _Rowena? What is it? What happened?_ ”

Rowena cleared her throat. “Poughkeepsie?”

The doors to the auction hall flew in under the onslaught of Winchester boots. The auction patrons were screaming and running for the doors, even as Alexei's guards recognized the new threat.

And there was Sam, head and shoulders above the rest, firing witch-killing bullets into the dark-suited men Alexei was sending out after them. And Dean, shouldering through the crowd, Colt raised to fill Alexei with enough lead to make his coffin rattle (as he'd put it, later, when they were home and safe). The ground was shaking around them, the finery on the walls melting away as Alexei's magic died with him. The clock on the wall stopped with just four minutes left to midnight. Cheeky bastard had cut his own auction a little too close for comfort.

“Cas!” Dean was at her side, practically pulling the angel out of her grasp, already interrogating poor, exhausted Castiel even as he dragged him toward the door and out of the auction hall.

“Oh, no, I'm fine,” Rowena called after him. The floor was littered with broken furniture and discarded items, everything the auction guests had left behind in their panicked flight.

“Rowena?” Samuel picked his way over to meet her, offering his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly,” she smiled up at him, looping her arm through his. “Could do with the Grimoire of Loraine, if it's not too much trouble?”

Sam laughed. “I'll see what we can do. And, um...thanks. For...y'know. For getting him back.”

Rowena gently tapped Sam on the nose with her fan. “My pleasure, dearie. My pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch my cheeky references? See if you can figure out which three works of fiction I referenced here.
> 
> One is a novel from a series of suspense novels, one is a pretty well-known movie that has had many spin-offs, and one has appeared in multiple medias but I'm particularly thinking of a video game (the third in its series)


	5. Where Do You Think You're Going (Failed Escape)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Serious warnings for abuse) (set before season one) "But there was something about tonight, something about the endless hunger and fear and pain and loneliness that just broke him down." When Sam leaves for Stanford, Dean is left alone to face the rage that has overcome their father. (Prequel to chapter four of Time for Whump, Boys)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously. Content warnings for physical, mental, verbal, and emotional abuse. This is very dark. John is not a good person in this chapter. There's also food abuse? If that's a thing? Food used to control someone, you could say.

The carpet in the hotel room was thin, like a piece of felt glued to concrete instead of anything with actual cushion or padding. The walls were unyielding, the stained paper a testament to the years this place had been left to rot. The heater barely spluttered out enough warm air to keep the temperature tolerable.

Dean sat against the wall, knees hugged to his chest, staring up at the ceiling and trying to will himself to fall asleep. He didn't want to look down at the pair of double beds. One held their gear from the last hunt...the other held Dad.

It was his own fault, anyway. If he hadn't screwed up on the hunt, if he hadn't almost let the thing get away, if he hadn't taken so much time to do one simple task he could have been curled up in a bed right now instead of exiled to sit on the floor. Fitting punishment, Dad said, and Dad had to be right, right? John Winchester was quite possibly the best hunter in the country, and if he said Dean screwed up and needed to be taught a lesson, again, then Dean would shut up and learn it.

He stared blearily at the clock. Sometimes he wished things could just go back to the way they were, back before Sammy had left them, back before his dad was was so twisted up with rage. But that was useless. A pipe dream. Why would Sammy ever come back after Dean had driven him away? If he'd just done his freaking job, just looked after his brother, just done _enough_ then Sammy wouldn't have left. His father wouldn't be so angry. They could be together, like before.

Dean flinched as he accidentally brushed a hand against his side. There was undoubtedly a set of nasty bruises forming there—though at least Dad hadn't been wearing his steel toe boots, so Dean's ribs weren't busted this time. His side was throbbing and hot to the touch, and despite the coolness of the wound he longed to get a cold compress.

The ice bucket was right there, on the little hotel dresser. He was encouraged to treat his own wounds—hell, _expected_ to treat his own wounds. It wouldn't count as discipline if Dad patched him up after every punishment, after all.

He had long ago given up on trying to get Dad to stop. For a while he'd thought that maybe it was just a phase, maybe if Dad got all the anger and grief out they could go back to the way things were. Every punch or kick, every blow of the belt across Dean's back—they were all supposed to be steps back to normalcy. Somehow, though, the well of rage inside John Winchester just never seemed to end. It wasn't getting better as time passed, it was getting _worse_.

Or...or he was getting worse. Maybe that was it. Maybe he just hadn't noticed how poorly he was performing in hunts these days, all because he was too selfish to think beyond himself. He hadn't tried hard enough to keep Sammy with the family, and he obviously wasn't trying hard enough now to be any real help to Dad.

Dean quietly climbed to his feet. The ice machine wasn't too far away, so he wouldn't even need his shoes for the short trip. Dad made a noise in his sleep when Dean picked up the bucket, but it seemed like the older man was still deeply asleep. That was when Dean saw the handful of change John had left on the dresser next to the ice bucket.

He hesitated. He hadn't eaten anything for dinner—hadn't been _allowed_ dinner, food wasn't so plentiful they could just waste it if he wasn't pulling his weight. It had seemed all right at the time, with the fading adrenaline from the hunt, the burn of humiliation as his father outlined everything he'd done wrong, then the pain of discipline he hadn't had much appetite then. But now...now Dean's stomach rumbled at the thought of food. There was a vending machine next to the ice machine. Surely Dad wouldn't miss a dollar or two. Just for a granola bar, not anything as extravagant as candy. He'd even eat it outside so the rustle of the wrapper wouldn't wake his father.

He carefully picked through the change on the dresser. One dollar and fifty cents, that would be more than enough for a granola bar from the vending machine. He could eat it right there, while the ice bucket was filling up. That wouldn't even take any extra time.

Dean had slipped the change into his pocket and had just put his hand to the door when a gruff voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Where do you think you're going?” John's voice was thick with sleep, whiskey, and anger.

Dean swallowed. “Just to get s-some ice,” he replied, holding up the ice bucket.

John made an angry sound, practically a growl deep in his throat, and threw back the blankets to stalk over to Dean. “You were running,” he said.

“No, sir,” Dean shrank back against the door, ice bucket held in front of him like a shield. “J-just ice. You said-”

“Don't tell me what I said!” John roared. He snatched the ice bucket away from Dean and hurled it across the room, then tangled his fingers in the collar of his son's shirt to slam him against the door. The hand dug into the small of Dean's back, no doubt adding to the bruising there. “You're lying to me.”

Dean shook his head frantically. Lying was wrong, almost as bad as screwing up on a hunt. Lying was what made your brother leave and your father angry. “I'm not,” he protested weakly.

Dad backhanded him, adding to the bruises on his face from earlier. “Pockets,” John hissed.

With trembling hands Dean pulled out the change he'd taken. The quarters and nickels winked accusingly in the faint light of the hotel room. It was stupid. He shouldn't have taken it. He'd just been so hungry.

Dad grabbed his wrist and wrenched his hand up to study the money more closely. “So you're stealing again.”

He broke down. “I'm sorry,” he whispered as Dad wrenched his hand even higher, until his wrist was screaming under the strain. “I was just hungry.”

“Hungry?” John's eyes were cold, unreadable. “Fine.” He released Dean, the change scattering around the room, and stalked over to the trash can that sat between the beds. Dean knew what he was getting, but that didn't make his stomach revolt any less when John shoved the half-eaten burger at him. “Eat, then, Dean. Eat if you're hungry.”

It had been sitting there over twenty-four hours now. When Dad had brought it in it had been a juicy bacon cheeseburger, the kind that Dean used to crave. John had eaten most of that burger, and what was left was a greasy, congealed mess in a soggy bun. Dad had left it sitting out while they were getting information, and when they'd come back to the hotel to prepare for the hunt he'd torn a strip off of Dean for not making sure the leftovers were properly refrigerated.

There was no excuse. He should have seen it, should have paid more attention to what his father was eating and if there was anything leftover. If he'd put it away like he should, his dad might have something better than a half-rotten burger to offer him now.

“I thought you were hungry,” John said. His voice was dark and rough with anger. “Were you lying?”

Dean swallowed. He could try to stomach the burger, and probably be punished again for wasting food when it came back up. Or...or he could skip that discomfort and face his punishment for lying. Again. Obviously he wasn't hungry _enough_ if he was turning his nose up to food his father was offering him.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, not daring to look John in the eye.

With a growl, his father held the remains of the burger closer to Dean's face and squeezed it until the rancid grease ran out between his fingers. “You're sneaking out in the middle of the night,” the older man began. “Stealing from me. Lying to me. Refusing the food I provide. Am I forgetting anything?”

Dean shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. Why hadn't he just gotten the ice? Dad might have let him get the ice. If he hadn't taken the change, he wouldn't have sparked so much anger in the older man.

“Shirt off,” John commanded. He wiped his greasy hand on the hotel comforter and starting sliding his belt through the loops in his pants. “On your knees.”

He was already complying. It was harder to pull his T-shirt off with how sore his ribs were, but he managed to do it before his father strode over to help him. If he made Dad tear his T-shirt taking it off that would just be wasting more resources...it was bad enough he couldn't even build enough muscle to wear the same size clothes as his father. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, folding over to offer the best surface area for his father to work with.

John was always thorough, brutal, and efficient. He knew exactly how many blows would leave his son bleeding, shaken, and on the brink of passing out without actually beating him unconscious. Dean was fighting down the nausea from the pain—and nausea on an empty stomach just wasn't fair—when his father finally stopped and tossed the belt aside.

“Pack up,” John sneered. “We're leaving in an hour.”

Dean blinked up at him. “N-now?”

“I ain't getting back to sleep after this, boy!” John roared. Dean flinched back, expecting another blow. When it didn't come he risked another glance up, to see his father sitting down on the edge of his bed to pull his boots on. “Need to head to Riddle next. Tonight was a shitshow, but at least I found the sons of bitches.”

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on the floor again. He flinched when John's booted feet hit the floor. “One hour,” the older man warned before stalking out the door, keys in hand.

With shaking hands, Dean followed his father's orders. The weapons had to be reassembled and packed away, ammo stored in the right cases, evidence of their presence scrubbed away. He pulled his own meager possessions out of the dresser to stuff in his tattered duffle bag and hesitated when he found his old phone.

John didn't know about it—well, he probably did, and just didn't care as long as Dean didn't use it. He'd kept it in hopes that Sammy might call or text, but his little brother had shown no interest in keeping contact.

But there was something about tonight, something about the endless hunger and fear and pain and loneliness that just broke him down. Without really knowing what he was doing, Dean punched in the only number he had to contact his brother.

The phone rang a couple of times, and Dean was about to put it away when the call finally connected. “ _Hello?_

It was Sam. He sounded raspy with sleep and a little irritated at being woken up, but it was Sam.

Shaking, Dean held the phone a little closer to his ear and squeezed his eyes shut. “S-Sammy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read the next part of the story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956177/chapters/57920584


	6. Please... (Get it Out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A souped-up Khan worm gets ahold of Cas, bringing back old traumas for all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit shorter this time, but between the heavy stuff I posted last night and falling a little behind with this I needed a short one.

“Dammit, Sammy, on your left!” Dean lunged for the wriggling black slug as the Khan worm slithered away from its latest victim. They were armed with long, electric cattle prods that Sam had dialed up the juice on, but it seemed like nothing was slowing this bastard down.

They weren't quiet sure where this thing had come from. It was stronger than the others they'd face, and didn't seem to control its victims as much as tear them apart from the inside. Sam had come up with a handful of theories—Eve had created multiple and they evolved quickly, someone was summoning them from Purgatory and wound up with more than they could handle, Michael or another powerful force had souped the worms up—but unless they could catch the damn thing while its host was still functional they had no chance of finding out the truth.

The damn thing was fast, too. “Cas! Headed your way!” Dean called. That was their backup plan. Castiel was waiting in the next room, smite turned up to full, ready to vaporize the entire room to kill the worm if it got past the Winchesters.

He saw the worm slither over the doorway and let out a curse before ducking behind a piece of broken furniture and covering his eyes. There was a tingle of electricity on the air, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up like he was statically charged, then a great _whump_ of pressure that nearly knocked him flat even behind cover.

“Sammy?” Dean stuck his head out, relieved to see his brother a few feet away. Sam looked dazed but gave him a thumb's up. “Cas?”

There was no reply. “Hey, Cas?” Dean picked himself up and made his way through the wreckage from the smiting. “You okay?”

The angel was standing in the middle of the room, staring down at the floor with a blank expression. Dean swallowed, his gut screaming at him that something wasn't right, and pressed further into the room. “Cas?”

Cas blinked and looked up at him. For just a second, his face twisted into an expression of rage, then he clamped his hands over his ears and collapsed to his knees with a cry.

“Cas!” Dean rushed forward, trying to pry one of the angel's hands away. His fingers were digging into his skin as he tried to twist away from Dean, but not before the hunter saw something that made his blood run cold. A trail of black sludge trickled out of Cas's ear...the Khan worm had gotten him.

“Get it out,” Cas rasped. His voice was tight with pain and fear, and he clawed at the sides of his head hard enough to draw blood. “Dean, please! Get it out of me!”

Most of Dean's instincts were telling him to run for it. Khan worms could wreak havoc with a mundane human, how much damage could one do with an angel? But Cas was fighting it, Cas was staying in control. “How are we gonna do this?” he asked Sam when his brother joined them.

Sam's eyes were wide and he shook his head. “We don't have enough juice. This isn't even enough to kill a person, it won't even hurt Cas, and if he tries to suppress his grace to let it affect him...”

“The worm takes over,” Dean concluded. Cas had twisted away from them and was trying to crawl out of the room, body still heaving and convulsing as he fought the invasion presence. “No, man, come on, you've got this.” Dean followed and tried to pull him up but Cas flinched back.

“Run, Dean,” Cas gasped. “They're taking over...I won't hurt you again.”

“Easy, buddy, come on,” Dean pulled Cas's head and shoulders into his lap. “You can fight this, man. Don't give that bloodsucker any ground, you hear me?”

Behind them Sam was running around the torn-up warehouse, probably geeking together something to save the day. Cas was practically seizing, arching off the ground and clawing at his head no matter how many times Dean tried to pull his hands away. His face was a mess of bloody scratches now, hair torn out in clumps.

“Just run,” Cas pleaded. His eyes were open but not seeing, horror written across his features. “I can't stop...them...” he gave out a cry and lurched away from Dean, coughing up bloody bile onto the cement floor.

Dean swore and rested a hand on the angel's heaving shoulders. “This thing's tearing you up, Cas, you have to fight it,” he said, trying to be encouraging. “Can you, I dunno, smite it from the inside?”

Cas shook his head. “Useless.”

“Come on, man, you haven't tried,” Dean replied. “Electricity kills these things, remember? Heaven's power is ionized air or some shit, right? Focused lightning or whatever? You and Sammy geek out over this all the time.”

“Tried it...before.”

“What before?” Dean shook his head. “Dude, when have you faced a Khan worm before?”

“...leviathan.”

Dean's stomach twisted. “No, buddy, no.” He slid around, hands under Cas's shoulders, forcing him enough to make eye contact. “Cas, I swear to you, this isn't a leviathan. This is a Khan worm, a dirty little parasite, it's not one of them.”

Cas flinched away from the word and tried to bring his hands up to claw at his head again, but Dean stopped him. “Taking over,” he whispered.

“No, Cas, you're gonna fight it,” Dean replied. His voice rose with emotion, but who gave a damn right now. His hands tightened on Cas's upper arms and he gave the angel a little shake. “Fight this thing, Cas. You can beat this son of a bitch.”

The angel let out a pitiful moan and twisted away to cough out more blood. His entire body shudder, nearly hard enough to knock Dean's hands free. This was looking bad; if they couldn't find a way to neutralize the Khan worm it would either take over Cas or kill him. Either way, they lost. “Sammy!”

“Right here!” Sam was running back to them, panting, hauling a cart that had four or five car batteries lined up side-by-side. “Looted the forklifts,” he explained breathlessly. “Wired to the cattle prod. Should be enough.”

“Do it,” Dean jerked his head toward Cas. “All right, buddy, I'm gonna let you go. Sam's got enough juice to shock that thing out of you, all right?”

Cas was shaking his head, but Dean held on. “At least let us try. We'll find something else if this doesn't work.”

He felt horrible leaving Cas to curl up in the fetal position, clawing at his head and face again as soon as his hands were free. Dean stood behind Sam, arms folded, chewing his lip. “Ready?”

Sam nodded. He flicked the switch to activate the prod, careful of the trailing wires that connected it to the batteries, and pressed the tip against the bare flesh of Cas's neck. The angel cried out and tried to shrink away from the pain but Sam pressed forward. There was a sizzling, a smell like burning flesh, and Cas gave one final, violent convulsion before something black and slimy and disgusting oozed out of his ear.

Without hesitating Sam jabbed the cattle prod directly into the Khan worm, frying the sucker from the inside out before it could slither another centimeter. Dean rolled Cas away from the parasite, fumbling to check the angel's pulse and breathing.

“Whoa, hey, it's okay. You're safe now, buddy,” he said when Cas jerked awake. “Sammy got it. It's out of you, and it's dead. It won't hurt you again.”

Cas was still panting for breath, staring between Dean and Sam for a moment, then down to the smoking remains of the Khan worm. Something seemed to connect, finally, and he closed his eyes and relaxed against the warehouse floor.

Dean patted his chest and sent his brother an exhausted look. “Let's go home.”


	7. I've Got You (Support)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is caught in a desperate game of hide-and-seek when trying to rescue a wendigo's victims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little rough, but...bro...friend...two-thirds of my store is out because one employee tested positive for Covid and they had to send everyone who worked closely with that person for quarantine and testing. There are literally four of us to run the entire store. Including me, the Sewing Goblin.

Sam brushed at the dirt and cobwebs on the wall of the mine tunnel to see the intersection label clearly. He held the map up close to the label so he could verify the information and nodded for Dean to take a look.

“Right on track,” Dean murmured. “That old-timer said the north section was caved in from here, right?”

“Right,” Sam agreed. He was conscious of every tiny sound in the abandoned mine, wondering if each one meant something was stalking them in the darkness. Wendigos were always tricky to hunt, especially in the darkness, and tracking one down in its den was particularly dangerous. They had no choice this time, though, as it had taken several victims. If there was even a chance some of those people might be alive they had to risk it.

“We gotta split from here?” Dean asked. He flashed his light down the two sides of the intersecting tunnel. They didn't like it, but they had to cover more ground. According to the weather reports the first freeze could hit any day now, and as soon as that happened the wendigo would retreat into its den and not venture back out until Spring.

They had the smallest chance that it was out hunting now. These things had an insatiable hunger, so it was possible the wendigo was out for one last scavange.

Dean paused at the mouth of the left hand tunnel and held his hand up. Sam rolled his eyes. “I'm not gonna rock-paper-scissors you for the tunnels, just pick one.” His brother shrugged, let his hand bounce three times as though they were playing rock-paper-scissors, and gave Sam the finger. Sam snorted. “Nice, dude. Real mature.”

“You know you love me,” Dean retorted with a smirk. “Hey...stay safe down there, okay, Sammy?”

“Yeah, you too.” Sam watched his brother slink away into the darkness for a few seconds. Dean's stealth always surprised people, like they couldn't believe someone that big could be that quiet. It wouldn't be enough to fool a wendigo, and it was only the fact that they were running short on time that kept Sam from insisting they go together.

The tunnel he was following was a fairly straightforward descent that would end at a natural cavern with an underground lake. He and his brother had argued about which tunnel was more likely to be the wendigo's lair—while this one would have a supply of water (though legends weren't really clear on if wendigos needed water), Dean's tunnel lead down to a maze of half-finished shafts and passages from the mine's last days.

Sam knew he was approaching the cavern by the change in the sounds around him. He could hear more water dripping, with the slight echo that indicated an open space. In the silence these sounds were almost deafening, and he strained to hear anything beyond the natural background noise of the cavern but it seemed the only thing there was his own ragged breathing.

He paused for a moment, hiding behind a rough collection of stalagmites to scope out the area around the lake. He really should have fought Dean for the other tunnel; Sam had hated places like this every since reading _The Hobbit_ in middle school. Yeah, sure, their jobs took them to scary places all the time, but underground lakes and vast, dripping caverns reminded him too much of Gollum. It didn't help that Dean had spent weeks convincing him he'd seen something like Gollum sneaking around every place they'd gone.

There was a rotted wooden structure to the side, probably storage for supplies for the mine. Not explosives or anything that would be damaged by the dampness in the cavern, of course.

He'd just decided to check out the old shed when a whisper of movement beyond it had him jumping back to press himself behind the stalagmites. Heart thudding in his ears, Sam fought to control his breathing and listen for any more signs of movement. He pulled out his flare gun and held it with the flashlight—if this was the wendigo he'd have one shot at this.

Nothing else happened. The wendigo, of course, could move silently in the darkness. It was the deep, heavy darkness of the underground. With his flashlight off there was nothing to break the blankness around him, not even a reflection off the underground lake. The silence stretched out claustrophobically, until another small sound caught Sam's attention.

It was still coming from behind the run-down shed. He clicked his light on and advanced slowly, playing the beam over the ground to watch his footing.

There were footprints. Bare feet with clawed toes, some left in the loose grit of the lake's shore, some coming up out of the water and vanishing down the tunnel Sam had come down. Oh shit. Did these things go in the water?

He slowly rounded the corner of the shed, flare gun held at the ready, only to find three of the missing hikers trussed up and hanging from a rotted support beam. Sam wedged the flashlight between his neck and shoulder and hurried to the first one.

It was a young woman, maybe twenty-one years old. Her dark skin looked sickly and gray in the faint light, but she was breathing and came to with a jolt when Sam touched her shoulder. “It's okay,” he whispered. “I'm here to save you.”

Her eyes were wild with fear, roving around the darkness and blinking against the light. Sam held his flashlight away and angled it so she could see his face. “What's your name?” he asked.

She stared at him for a few seconds, obviously fighting down her panic. “It's Cameron,” she finally said. “Cameron DeLacey.”

“I'm Sam. I've been looking for you,” Sam said with a smile. “Here, lemme get you down.” Cameron's wrists were lashed together with a rough piece of rope that had been looped over the old wooden beam. Sam tucked the flare gun in his belt and easily sawed through the rope, grabbed Cameron around the waist before she could fall to the ground.

“It's okay, I've got you,” he whispered. “I'm gonna get you guys out of here, okay?” He helped her sit on the stone floor and swung his pack off his shoulders, digging out a bottle of water and a second flashlight. “Can you keep watch while I cut your friends down?”

Cameron's eyes widened and she shook her head, dark curls bouncing around her face. “That thing...” she whispered, obviously terrified.

“Just point the flashlight for me?” Sam coaxed. “The sooner we get you out of here, the sooner my brother and I can kill this thing.”

She reluctantly accepted the flashlight, pointing it up at the person she'd been hanging next to. “You can kill it?” she asked.

“It's kind of our job,” Sam replied. The next one was an older man, who wasn't waking up as fast as Cameron. Sam cut him free and gently laid him down on the stone floor. He was stirring and moaning, so it wasn't too late for him.

It was for the next one. A woman, close in age to the man he'd just cut free. Blood was matted in her silvery hair from a head wound and her eyes were open and unseeing. Sam double-checked her pulse just to be sure, but her body was cold and stiff and her skin was papery. She was gone.

To his surprise, Cameron had crawled over to the older man to try to bring him around. She'd pulled the bandanna off of her neck and wet it with the water Sam had given her and was wiping the older man's face and wrists.

Sam crouched beside him, and when Cameron looked up at him then over to the woman he shook his head. “How is he?”

“If we can get him out of here he has a chance,” Cameron replied. “Pretty out of it though.”

“Let's get him up.” Sam wrapped one of the man's arms around his neck and hauled him upright. Cameron took the other side, even though she looked unsteady herself. The man was almost as tall as Dean and Cameron was a good foot shorter, so it was awkward.

There was a secondary shaft that connected to the upper levels, but the man they were hauling between them was in no shape to climb the ladder. It was a longer, and thus more dangerous, hike to the old service elevator.

It was uphill to the intersection, and Sam stopped for a moment while Cameron caught her breath and he listened for any other sounds. He was sure they would have heard it if Dean had encountered the wendigo, but there was nothing. Sam wasn't sure if that was good or bad news.

“Okay, come on, this way,” he whispered.

“ _Sam?_ Dean's voice echoed out of the shadows. “ _Sam? Help me!_ ”

Sam shuddered. Cameron's breath was panting in and out as Dean's voice trailed up from the blocked-off tunnel behind them. “Keep going,” Sam murmured.

“ _Sammy? Sammy? Where are you?_ ”

“Who is that?” Cameron whispered.

“The wendigo,” Sam replied. “They can mimic human voices.” It was behind them, it knew who he was (or guessed), and it was tracking them. There was no way they were fast enough to get out.

“It knows who you are?”

“It's just a trick. Keep moving.”

“ _Sam? Sammy?_ ”

The voice was Dean's, but just wrong enough that Sam could ignore. They had a code, anyway, just in case this happened. Dean would have asked for extra mayo, not help, if he was really in trouble.

The man they were hauling down the tunnel began to groan. Sam tried frantically to quiet him, but the man began to struggle against his grasp. Behind them, in the darkness, there was a faint sound like claws scraping against stone.

Sam made a choice.

He ducked out from under the man's arm and grabbed for Cameron. “Let's go,” he hissed. The wendigo was only a few yards behind them, there was no way out of this for all three of them. Just ahead the passage split off to lead to the access ladder to the upper floors. Sam pulled Cameron around the corner and pressed her up against the cold stone wall with his own body, covering her mouth, turning his face away from the open tunnel they'd just left as though that would make what he had done less horrible.

There was an awful, guttural shriek that started low and rose higher and higher until it was a keening wail. Then a horrible snap, a sound like heavy fabric being torn, and the soft pattering of liquid onto the stone.

The wendigo began to feed. Sam shuddered, sick to his heart over what he'd done. There had been no time to get a shot off, and if they hadn't left the other man behind it would have been all three of them by now. Cameron was shaking; Sam could feel the wetness on her face from tears streaming out of her eyes,

“You have to be quiet,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the wendigo feasting. “There's a ladder...up the tunnel. We have to go now, but we have to be quiet. Understand?”

She nodded. Sam slowly pushed himself away from the wall. He reached out into the dark, finding Cameron's shoulder, and gently slid down her arm to take her hand. He had to get Cameron to the ladder, hand off the map and the light, then he could go back to find Dean and hunt the creature.

They picked their way through the darkness until the sounds of the wendigo's feeding had distorted to confusing echoes, then Sam turned his flashlight on so they could find their way. He still felt sick. He should have been able to do something, defend them all, find a better way. Instead he'd left an innocent man to a horrible death, all to save his own skin.

Cameron's grip tightened on his hand as she stumbled over some loose rocks, and Sam tried to force his mind to focus on what they had in front of them. It was too late for the man he'd left behind, but he could get the girl to safety. The ladder wasn't too far, and Sam's light caught the dull, rusted metal leading up to a hole in the ceiling. Cameron moaned in dismay when she saw that the bottom five feet or so of the ladder had broken away.

“It's okay,” Sam whispered. “I've got you.” He tucked the flashlight under his arm and cupped his hands, gesturing for her to step in them.

She hesitated. “What about you?”

“I have to go back for my brother,” Sam explained. “We have to kill that thing before it gets anyone else. Oh, hang on,” he straightened up to dig the paper out of his back pocket and held it out to her. “Follow this map to get out of the mine. Wait for us, there's a big black car parked there. Black impala. If we're not there by sunrise follow the trail down to the highway. Ask for Sheriff Miller.”

Cameron nodded. In the faint light of the flashlight he could see where her tears had cut through the dirt on her face. “Be careful, Sam,” she whispered.

He managed a half-smile and leaned over, cupping his hands again. She placed one foot in his hands and both her hands on his shoulders and he straightened up, holding her up until she could grab onto the lowest rung of the ladder. He supported her feet from behind so she could climb and watched until she disappeared into the tunnel a level above.

Right. Back to the wendigo. It had gone silent down the hall, obviously done with its feast. But did that mean it was stalking Sam? Or had it gone after Dean this time?

Flare gun out, Sam pressed himself to the wall of the tunnel and slowly made his way back. There was a smell in the air now, the iron tang of blood and raw meat.

“ _Sam_?”

He froze. The voice had come from right around the corner. He could smell it now, smell the years of rot and death that cloaked the creature. Sam tightened his grip on the flare gun and spun around the corner. He let the flashlight play around the tunnel until it hit a tall, emaciated figure crouched against the wall. With a cry Sam fired the flare gun as the wendigo charged. It knocked his arm away and the flare struck the ceiling, dust and debris exploding down from the impact.

Sam dropped and rolled to the side, barely avoiding the blow from a clawed hand. He had another flare gun in his pack, but there was no time to dig it out now. He pulled his gun free instead—bullets wouldn't do much to a wendigo, but it was all he had and it might do _something_.

He yelled as he fired, his own voice adding to the confusion of sound and flashes of light as he unloaded round after round into the skeletal body of the advancing monster. It let out a howl of pain, something dark and primal that had Sam's stomach twisting with nausea and fear freezing his limbs.

“Hey, fugly!”

The wendigo spun, mouth gaping to let out another cry, and the flare from Dean's gun caught it directly in the stomach. It shrieked as it burned, a sound more terrible and bone-chilling than its cry of pain, and Sam tried to curl away from it with his arms wrapped around his head.

An analytical part of his mind realized he was hyperventilating, that it was just the body's reaction to stress and he could calm it down if he focused. The rest of him was overwrought with the events of the night and the sounds and sights of the wendigo as it burned and he just wanted to be somewhere warm and safe and away from the death and darkness.

“Sammy? Hey, hey, it's okay.” Someone was leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the side of his face. “We got it, man. It's all over.”

“Dean?” Sam whispered, wrapping a hand around his brother's forearm to make sure he was real. An analytical part of his mind told him the wendigo's scream was meant to cause terror to its victims to make them unable to fight back, and that he was still feeling the affects of the scream. The rest of him just wanted his brother to take him home.

“Who else?” Dean grinned in the faint light. For a split second it looked like he was going to make a crack—maybe about the wendigo imitating his voice—but his eyes softened and his smile was more genuine. “Come on, Sammy. Let's get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially going to have nightmares now, lol. Wendigos are the one creature that terrify me, that episode from season one is still the scariest in my opinion. And the bit about Sam being scared of Gollum is right from my childhood (way, way, way before the Lord of the Rings movies). So just lots of trauma here!


	8. Where Did Everybody Go? (Isolation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While investigating some occult signs, Castiel is captured by a vicious creature (based on entry from 2019)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite prompts last year was "Isolation", so when I saw that as an option this year I had to revisit my idea! So this is kind of a rewrite, some stuff is the same but there's more detail and stuff has been changed. This is one I'm going to expand when this month is over, so look for a full story in the future!

“This one appeared just last night,” the sheriff explained, nodding to the symbol inscribed on the wall. It was an eight-pointed star, intersected with lines of an almost indecipherable text.

Castiel crouched beside the symbol and ran one finger over a trailing line. Animal blood. “And the others?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Like you said, popping up in spots where people went missing. So you think this is a cult thing?”

“The text is Babylonian,” Castiel explained as he straightened up. “I believe it is part of the tale of Inanna, who traveled to the underworld to challenge her sister for a chance to rule.”

The sheriff whistled in disbelief, and too late Castiel remembered he wasn't traveling with the Winchesters at the moment. “Man, you FBI guys sure know your stuff.”

“Do you have photos of the other sites?” Castiel asked, brushing off the comment. The sheriff handed him a folder and he quickly flipped through it. As he'd thought, the symbols found at the other crime scenes were almost the same, just with slight variations of text. They all referenced the escape of Ianna from the underworld and the need of a sacrifice to appease the demons that pursued her.

“Look, I got a city full of folk who just wanna know what's going on,” the sheriff said after almost a minute of silence. “The coordinates for those symbol thingies are in there, I'll head back to the office and let you poke around, all right?”

Castiel gave a short nod, still absorbed in studying the images. The Babylonian deities had supposedly been purged thousands of years ago, but he supposed it was possible one had escaped. Perhaps even Inanna herself, and she was trying to gain a foundation of belief.

He walked back over to his truck to lay the photos out side-by-side. There just seemed to be no pattern. The symbols appeared with no specific intervals of time—anything from three days apart to over a week. As he mulled over the pictures, looking for any connection between the Babylonian text, a chill down his spine had him straightening up and checking the empty parking structure behind him. He had the uncanny sense that something was watching him, something malevolent.

Spinning back around, he began to shuffle the photos back into the folder. There was a smell in the air now, of sulfur and decay. Castiel tucked the folder under his arm and had started to walk around to the driver's side door of the truck when a wave of power sent him to his knees. It was as though the ground itself was roiling, protesting the presence of a creature that had no right to exist in this dimension.

He didn't even get a clear glimpse of what was attacking him before it was on him, just a hint of claws and teeth and the stench of decay and then a terrible weight bore him to the ground while cruel slashes from a clawed hand left him blind. It was huge, whatever it was, and it tossed him around as though he were merely a rag doll.

Hammer-like blows rained down on his body, and when he twisted to defend himself the creature's horrible claws tore his skin from shoulder to hip. Then a kick to his ribs sent him rolling onto his back, and when he brought up an arm in a futile attempt to block whatever blow was coming the creature wrenched his arm to the side hard enough that he felt his tibia snap.

Over and over, alternating fists and claws, the monstrosity savagely beat his body. His stomach, legs, battered chest...even his ruined eyes, nothing was safe from the fiend's wrath. The creature bellowed, as though in triumph, and hoisted Castiel off the ground and over its head. He was vaguely aware that he was spinning, flying, falling...then he was flung down and struck something solid and knew no more.

* * *

Castiel awoke in darkness, though from the pain in his eyes he had no doubt it was from the wounds he'd endured and not simply his environment. His arms had been pulled above his head and were bound by heavy manacles, the chain just long enough to let him stand upright. The position was painful to hold, as it put pressure on many of his wounds, the worst being his broken arm.

He realized, as well, that someone had taken his shoes and socks. He stood barefoot on what appeared to be broken glass, and let out a hiss of pain when he tried to shift his weight.

A sudden sound crash all around him, as though he were in a tin box and someone was banging on the walls. He cringed away, though there was nowhere to cringe to, and only succeeded in slipping on his bloodied feet and pulling against his broken arm. “Is someone there?”

The crash again. From both the echoes of his voice and the banging around him, Castiel assumed he was in some kind of storage container. Maybe a prefabricated shed of some kind. “Who are you?” he called. “Where am I?”

A new sound, the screech of metal-against-metal. A slight shift in the air indicated that whoever—or whatever—was holding him captive had opened a door, but before Castiel could do little more than turn his head the room was filled with the smell of sulfur and rot and the creature was storming in. It grabbed him by the chin with one clawed hand and pulled him up as its fist slammed into the stomach. He retched pathetically, unable to turn away as the smell of the creature's foul mouth drew closer.

For a moment there was silence, then the hand on his chin shifted to wrap around his neck, hard enough that he could feel the tender flesh there bruising. The other hand raked dreadful claws up his body to cover his mouth, squeezing so that the tips of the claws dug into his cheek.

The message was clear. No more noise.

It dropped him suddenly, leaving him scrambling for his balance on top of broken glass. Castiel whimpered as one foot slipped and his weight pulled on the manacles above his head. The creature gave a low, menacing growl, and Castiel flinched away as he sensed it draw near.

It stopped. It gave a strange, guttural hoot, and the angel realized the beast was laughing at him. The hand latched around his neck again, drawing him in closer, and he felt the creature's hot breath as it sniffed at the vulnerable skin at the base of his throat.

“Having fun, are we?”

Castiel started. He hadn't sensed the other presence beyond the creature, but the most worrying thing about it was the familiarity of the voice. “You?”

The creature gave another growl and tightened its hold on Castiel's throat, crushing his windpipe. Behind it the sheriff gave a mocking clap, and Castiel could hear the crunch of broken glass beneath the man's boots as he walked around the creature to get closer to Castiel.

“Little lamb, how far you've roamed,” the sheriff mused. Gone was the pleasant affectation of a small-town lawman, replaced by a smooth voice with a slight Atlantic accent. “I don't know what you are, but my friend here seems to enjoy playing with you.”

Castiel swallowed against the crushing pressure on his throat and sensed the creature lean in closer, foul breath rolling over him in waves.

“The gallu, you see, are not the brightest of demons, but they are some of the most persistent,” the sheriff continued. “One can hold them off with the blood of a lamb, but my friend here has been enjoying his time on the surface a bit too much.”

Castiel had not known the gallu still existed. In ancient times they'd been a class of bestial demons whose only purpose was to track down souls that escaped from hell. Supposedly Crowley had exiled them all to one of the lower planes, but it wasn't impossible that someone else could have summoned one back up.

The gallu released his neck and Castiel sucked in a breath, then coughed it back out. It was agonizing, between the pain in his throat and his broken ribs, but at least he could breathe again. He didn't have a constant need for breath, but with so many injuries his vessel was unable to maintain itself on his grace alone. In fact, his grace was barely sparking. There was enough there to sustain him, but the majority of it was locked away somehow.

He tried to rally himself, sensing the gallu moving away so that the sheriff could circle closer. “Who...” he rasped, swallowing back part of the word as his throat spasmed in pain.

“Who am I?” the sheriff was behind him, leaning so close that Castiel could hear his tongue passing across his teeth as he licked his lips. “I have had many names, but you can call me Lear.”

Then Lear's presence was gone, the man's footsteps echoing out of the cell. “Make sure he stays quiet, friend,” he called back, just as the gallu struck Castiel across the face with a backhanded blow.

* * *

“Any sign of him?”

Sam shook his head, passing the binoculars up to his brother. “There's something big in there, but no sign of Cas.”

It had been almost three weeks since their friend had left the bunker. Cas frequently took cases on his own these days, and Sam suspected he enjoyed having time to himself. When he'd gone too long without checking in the brothers had come after him, and after far too much time chasing down dead ends they'd finally tracked one possible lead to an old warehouse.

The sheriff had said a man matching Cas's description had checked out the weird occult symbols left around town, but had just vanished into thin air. Dean hadn't liked the look of the sheriff—but Dean didn't much like anyone when one of his family was in trouble—so they had tried to stay below the radar as they searched the area for any sign of Cas.

“All right,” Dean handed the binoculars back and scooted down to sit against the broken wall they were using for cover. “Only thing we've found so far is sulfur, right?”

Sam nodded. “Which probably means demons.”

“Bingo.” Dean held up something for Sam's inspection, a feral grin spreading across his face.

“Tranquilizer darts?” Sam asked.

“Loaded with holy water and salt. And,” he added, holding up a small bottle with a scrap of cloth poking out the neck. “Holy fire Molotov.”

Sam had to admire his brother's ingenuity. It was a nice addition to their usual assortment of weaponry. “Ready?”

Dean had already loaded the first pair of darts into the long tranquilizer gun he was carrying. “Let's get our angel back.”

It was a warehouse, of course. It was always a warehouse. They circled around to the back side of the building, where the windows were still covered in aging plywood, and picked their way through the undergrowth until they reached the side door. It was locked with nothing more than a chain looping through both handles, and Sam knelt down to pick the lock while Dean kept watch.

As soon as he got the doors open, the smell nearly knocked them back. Sulfur. Decay. Blood. Sam gagged and pulled the neck of his T-shirt over his mouth and nose—it didn't help, but he felt better for trying. Dean held up one hand and gestured for Sam to circle to the left and he would go right, and Sam nodded.

There were no lights in the warehouse, but the skylight above had fallen apart to let the afternoon sunlight in. Sam slowly picked his way around abandoned machinery, aiming for a set of what looked like storage containers along the next wall. The smell was stronger as he moved closer, almost a physical presence now, and he hid his nose in his elbow to try to block it out.

A shift in the shadows to his right was all the warning he got. On instinct he pulled the demon blade out of his belt and dove forward in a roll, feeling something tear through the fabric of his jacket. He swiped back with the blade and heard something bellow in pain (long arms were good for something, Dean). 

“What the hell!” the words burst out of his mouth without a thought when he finally caught sight of the creature they'd been hunting for over a week now.

It was a little taller than Sam and probably three times as broad, with a dark hide that looked like it could turn away bullets (but Sam saw the smoking wound in one arm from where he'd hit it with the demon blade). Its long arms ended in clawed hands, and its mouth was almost a muzzle that bristled with teeth dripping a foul-smelling saliva.

The creature gave another roar and charged, one arm raised to strike. Sam managed to dodge and scored another hit with the demon blade along its side. He could see movement behind the creature—Dean was running, sliding to one knee, tranquilizer gun brought to bear on the thing's back. Sam dropped to the ground just as his brother fired, both darts piercing the thing's hide. The creature roared, arching back, and turned to charge at Dean as the older Winchester tried to load more darts into his gun.

Sam rolled to his feet, dropping the demon blade in exchange for an angel blade. The thing was slower now, staggering a little, its back smoking where the holy water had penetrated. Sam took a long, flying leap and stabbed the angel blade into the base of the creature's skull, fighting to hold on as the thing shrieked and twisted.

“Sammy! Drop!”

Dean had abandoned the tranquilizer gun and had a couple of his Molotovs out and was lighting the rags. Sam kicked away from the creature and rolled into a ball, shielding his head with his arms. He heard the bottles shatter as they struck the monstrosity, then the unmistakable _whoosh_ of flames and a screech of pain as holy fire consumed it.

“The hell was that thing?” Dean demanded, running over to pull Sam to his feet.

“Some kind of demon?” Sam guessed. “Maybe it was holding Cas here.”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “You check the storage, I'll get the offices.”

Sam nodded, but Dean was already trotting away. He slowly picked up the demon and angel blades and stashed them away, pausing for a moment to rub at the bruise forming on one shoulder. Damn, but that thing could pack a punch. He'd hate to be on the receiving end of that.

He limped his was over to the storage containers to check them out. Most of them seemed to be falling apart, but one was closed with a piece of rebar shoved through the handles like a crude lock. Sam tugged the rebar away and hauled at the door, gritting his teeth as the metal shrieked and shuddered in his hand.

“Oh, god, Cas,” Sam whispered. The light barely illuminated the inside of the container, but it was just enough to see the angel hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Sam shoved the door open further to force his way inside, broken glass cracking under his feet.

For a moment he thought the angel was looking at him through the shadows, but when he got closer he realized Cas's eyes were swollen shut. Cas tried to say something, but his throat convulsed and no sound came out—Sam could see the horrible bruises around his friend's neck, like he'd been strangled more than once.

“Hang on, I'm gonna get you down,” Sam murmured. Cas still startled back when Sam gently gripped him by the forearms to lift the chain of the shackles off of the hook. Cas's knees buckled as soon as his arms were free and Sam caught him around the middle before he could fall into the broken glass.

“Almost there, buddy,” Sam whispered. He let Cas rest his head on his shoulder—practically nuzzling the soft fabric of Sam's flannel shirt—and slid one arm under the angel's knees. There was so much blood. God, how long had Cas been here? The whole three weeks? How many times had that thing torn into him?

Cas was trembling in his arms. Sam shoved his way out of the container and into the open air of the warehouse. The light was better out here and he could get those damn cuffs off, then they had to get Cas out of here and probably burn the place down just in case.

“Sam, did you—son of a bitch.”

Sam huffed out a sigh of relief when Dean jogged into sight. “He might be in shock, Dean,” he called over. His brother nodded, dropping the weapons he'd been carrying to help Sam lower Cas to the floor.

“His eyes?” Dean whispered. He gently cupped Cas's cheek with one hand and turned the angel's face to get a better look. “God, Sammy, what happened to his eyes?”

“We need to get the cuffs off,” Sam replied. “Maybe they're warded or something. Can you take him?”

Cas was trying to respond but it was obviously painful, his throat spasming but no sound coming out again. Dean gently propped the angel against his shoulder, and Cas did that nuzzling thing again. Maybe he was smelling them, since his eyes were in such bad shape. Sam hated to think of their friend hanging isolated in that place, nothing but darkness and pain for weeks.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean murmured while Sam picked at the lock. The older Winchester rested one hand on the back of Cas's head, as though encouraging him to burrow in to his warmth. “We've got you, buddy. It's gonna be okay.”

“There,” Sam let out a sigh of relief as the manacles fell away. He waited, hands on his thighs, half expecting a rush of golden light and Cas to return to normal. All that happened was the angel turned further into Dean's chest, his freed hands twisting into the hunter's clothing to hold on as though his life depended on it.

“I thought that would work,” Sam whispered. “Is he...”

“Let's get him out of here,” Dean said. “Bring those, maybe we're missing something,” he added, nodding at the manacles.

* * *

There was just so much damage.

It seemed like it had taken hours to set bones, stitch wounds, apply salve to bruises. Hell, it probably had taken hours, Dean reflected. He stretched up, hands on his lower back, and stared out the hotel window at the darkened street beyond.

“This might help,” Sammy called from the table. He'd run out to the car for the little bag of herbal remedies he kept toting around—like, how many times were they gonna need wormwood or arsenic or porous jade eggs or whatever—and had been crushing and scraping together some kind of goop for the last twenty minutes.

“I think we'll try anything,” Dean replied. The worst of Cas's wounds weren't the broken bones, not even the ones that had set crooked and would need to be re-broken to heal properly. The worst were the slashes from the monster's claws. It looked like the thing had some kind of venom or poison or bacteria or whatever, and had left that behind in most of the wounds. Cas's eyes were the worst. You couldn't even see the blue of his irises through the mess of blood and swollen flesh. There was either infection or poison in the wounds around his eyes—some kind of greenish fluid that was oozing out with the blood. It smelled bad, too, that salty mucus-y smell of infected wounds.

“Myrrh, hyssop, and holy water,” Sam announced. “And a couple other things, but mostly those. To purify and heal.” He had a little bowl of the medicine he'd mixed up and a length of bandage. “We can put it on his eyes and wrap them, try to pull the poison out?”

“Cas?” Dean looked down to ask their friend. He still couldn't form words, just these horrible, painful-sounding gasps. They'd run into a problem trying to treat him as he seemed determined to wrap himself around whichever Winchester was closest. He was leaning against Dean now, face tucked into Dean's neck (and he was going to have to wash that disgusting pus stuff off his neck and clothes now, thank you very much), unable or unwilling to move away.

“He's so clingy,” Dean whispered.

“He was isolated for a long time,” Sam replied. He was crouching next to Cas, trying to coax the angel's face around. “Maybe he's listening to our souls.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. That made sense. Maybe that was like the whole heartbeat thing to comfort babies, maybe a distressed angel found human souls soothing. “We just wanna put some medicine on your eyes, Cas,” he murmured as he tried to ease the angel away. “You can go right back to your velcro routine after, okay?”

“D-”

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, gently rubbing the back of Cas's neck. He could get the harder syllables out, but it made Dean flinch to hear. “Let Sam put this crap on you and I promise you can smell my soul all you want, 'kay?”

He ignored Sam's grin as Cas finally surrendered his death-grip on Dean's arm. The younger Winchester was quick and gentle with the salve, though apparently it was painful enough that Cas tried to pull away at first. Then the angel must have sensed something in the medicine and held still enough for Sam to finish and wrap the gauze around his head to cover his eyes before burying his face in Dean's shoulder again.

“He's smelling me,” Dean complained halfheartedly. “Dude just keeps getting weirder.”

“Give him a break,” Sam said. “I wanted to make something for his throat, but I really need some green tea for it.”

Dean gave a half shrug. “We're not going anywhere. Hang on, take snuggles for a second.”

Cas protested, but latched on to Sam as soon as the younger Winchester pulled him close. Dean yanked back the bedspread and tucked his legs under, sitting against the headboard. “See if you can get him to lie down if I'm right here.”

The angel was obviously in desperate need of rest, but they hadn't been able to convince him to lie down yet. Sam half-sat on the bed to pass the angel back over to Dean, sliding him under the blankets as he did. As soon as Cas touched Dean's leg he had one arm thrown across Dean's waist, face buried in Dean's hip.

“This is so awkward,” Dean complained as Sam tugged the blanket back up to cover Cas.

“You'll make it,” Sam teased. He rested one hand on Cas's shoulder for a second, worrying his lip as he thought about something. “Someone summoned that thing, right?”

“Don't know,” Dean shrugged. He'd found an old sci-fi novel in one of the desk drawers earlier and picked it up, leafing to the first page. “Maybe Cas has the answers.”

“Yeah.” Sam was quiet again, thoughtful. When Dean shot him a look he saw that his brother was staring down at Cas with a pained expression, like it was all his fault this had happened.

It wasn't. The only person to blame was that fugly bastard in the warehouse, and whoever had summoned it. “Hey,” Dean smacked his brother in the head with his book. “Go buy your tea. We've still got work to do here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original chapter is chapter 7 of Whumptober 2019 (Isolation)
> 
> Gallu demon is based off of Mesopotamian legends, descriptions from https://finalfantasy.fandom.com/wiki/Gallu, tweaked a little for my story.


	9. For the Greater Good (Run!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And it's my job to protect you! So would you stop trying to throw your life away and just let me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of short and weird, but it's been a rough week. Besides, weird is good sometimes.
> 
> Sometimes.

“Down!” Dean shoved Sam to the ground and opened fire on the mercenaries that came around the corner.

Sam half-crawled into cover, tugging the control panel for the complex's electrical system with him. “Once the timer is set we're gonna have thirty seconds to clear the building,” he called over his shoulder.

It should have been an easy task. Break into high-security building, rescue captive humans, destroy computer systems. These guys were hunters gone rogue, taking in runaways under the pretense of giving them a home and a purpose only to experiment on them with monster DNA. Trying to create the perfect soldier.

But they'd gone too far. Most the kids hadn't survived the experiment, and the few they could save were outside with Cas as the angel tried to stabilize them. Now that they had been found out, the rogue hunters and their mercenaries were scrambling to evacuate as much of the equipment and data as they could. They had one shot to destroy the whole thing before these guys started over somewhere else.

Jack slid across the floor, face covered in soot and dirt. “I connected the tanks like you said,” he told Sam, a little breathlessly.

“Great,” Sam tried to smile, but had to focus on the wiring work in front of him. He had to set it up to detonate remotely so they wouldn't be caught in the blast, but they couldn't give it much time or the mercenaries might disable the detonator.

“Phone!” Sam called, snagging Dean's phone out of the air almost on reflex. He stripped off the back cover and connected wires between the battery port and headphone jack, which would cause the spark they needed to set off the timer. “That's it, let's go!”

Sam tugged Jack to his feet and bolted for the door, one hand on the kid's back to keep him doubled over. Dean was behind them, still covering them, taking potshots at anyone who stuck their head around a doorway. “Come on!” He snagged Jack's arm and tugged him along, sprinting down the rough corridor to the set of stairs. “When you setting it off?”

“Next landing,” Sam panted behind him. They'd been doing way too much running today. “Then we have thirty seconds to-”

“To get outside, yeah, I know,” Dean shot back. “All right, move it, come on,” he paused on the landing, shoving Jack ahead of them down the hall a little way. “Sammy?”

Sam nodded and dialed Dean's phone. He waited, knowing the first ring would signal the connection to the bomb...but the call went straight to voicemail. He stared at his brother in shock, then redialed.

“What's wrong?” Jack asked.

“I-I dunno,” Sam shook the phone, as though that would help the connection. “It's not going through.”

Dean swore and dug his fingers into his hair. Jack, face serene, squeezed between them to head back down the stairs. “I'll take care of it.”

“The hell you will,” Dean snapped, yanking the kid back. “What are you talking about?”

Jack stared up at him with wide, sad eyes. “I have a lot to make up for.”

“No, Jack, we'll figure something else out,” Sam replied. “We have the grenade launcher, right?”

“There isn't enough time,” Jack said. “It's all right, Sam. This is all right.”

“This isn't how we settle things,” Dean announced. He held up his fist, cocking an eyebrow at Sam.

“Dude, no, we are not gonna rock-paper-scissors for who sets off the bomb!”

“We don't have time to draw straws, Sammy!” Dean shook his head. “It's only fair.

Sam stared in disbelief, but Jack held a fist out like Dean. “It's only fair,” he repeated.

Dean smiled and rested his free hand on Jack's shoulder...then struck him in the face with his closed fist so that the kid went down like a sack of bricks.

“Dean!” Sam caught Jack on the way down, hefting the kid up, dismayed to see his nose already gushing blood.

“No time, Sammy,” Dean rested one hand on Sam's arm briefly. “Get him out of here.”

“Dean!” Sam could only stare as his brother pelted back down the stairs, into the hail of gunfire, to activate the detonator himself. He wouldn't be able to get out in time, he'd go down with the building itself. Tears were already filling Sam's eyes as he hoisted Jack over his shoulder and sprinted down the long hall to the emergency exit, where Cas had taken all the captives out.

The sun was incongruously bright for the tragedy that was about to unfold. Sam stumbled into the light, bending over his knees to drop Jack onto the ground.

“Sam?” Cas was at his side in an instant, holding him up, staring between Sam and Jack in bewilderment. “What happened? Where's Dean?”

“He's...” Sam gestured to the building behind him. He couldn't get the words out, couldn't say it. Dean had stayed behind, had thrown himself down on the line so the rest of them could escape.

Cas stared down the long hall, as still as a stone. “ _Dean_ ,” he growled out, and Sam looked up in surprised to see that there was fury rather than grief contorting the angel's face.

Then Cas was gone, a swirl of trench coat vanishing down the corridor into the heart of the building.

* * *

Dean ducked from cover to cover down the hall, picking off a couple of the gunmen who had followed them toward the exit. Maybe he didn't have Sammy's technical proficiency, but he could twist a couple of wires together and duck for cover. This wasn't how he'd wanted it to end—he'd been thinking cold beer and warm sand—but some of those kids hadn't even been sixteen yet. If he had to go out like this, taking the sons of bitches that were torturing and killing _children_ wasn't a bad way to do it.

He rolled through the doorway to the control room, rising up to one knee to fire into the men gathered around Sam's detonation device. They disconnected the phone, and now he saw the timer Sam had rigged up on the floor as well.

Okay. No time to duck for cover.

“Dean!”

“Get out of here, Cas!” he bellowed as he dove for the wires. Sure, the explosion probably wouldn't harm an angel, but digging back out of the rubble would be a bitch.

He grabbed the detonation wires, kicked another man in the face, and curled around himself as he touched the wires together. Deeper in the building, the giant nitrogen tanks that kept the monsters in stasis began to blow, one after the other. The floor was shaking beneath him and the men were yelling and running in panic, but he knew there was no more time.

Dean had to wonder if Billie had seen this one coming.

Then, suddenly, Cas was bending over him, pulling Dean up and against his own body, tucking the hunter's head beneath his chin. There was a shimmer in the air around them, and the half-visible shadows of giant, skeletal wings arched out and above and around them.

He stared up, eyes wide, as plaster and beams rained down while the walls and ceiling collapsed, only to be repelled within an inch of the faint barrier above them. Cas was holding him with almost bruising strength, surrounding him with physical and metaphysical protection.

Dean held on as the building shook itself apart, unable to tear his eyes from the shadowy arches of Cas's wings. They looked ragged and twisted, but in that moment in the shelter of his best friend's wings he had never felt more protected.

“Cas?” he whispered, almost reverent, as the debris piled up around them, leaving an small pocket of air were Cas's wings were sheltering them.

Cas made a low sound in his throat that was almost a growl. Then, with a flex of his mangled wings the rubble around them exploded outward like they were the epicenter of another bomb. Fallen beams and machinery had twisted into impossible shapes due to the angel's power, fires had been blown out in an instant, and all around them was the eerie silence of the earth after a thunderstorm.

Their clothes weren't even dusty.

Dean tried to push away from Cas so he could stand up, but the angel merely tightened his grip. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Cas ground out.

“What?” He tried to look up at his friend, but Cas still had him tucked in so tightly he couldn't see more than the angel's collarbone. “You know we had to blow this place, Cas.”

“But why _you_?”

Dean snorted. “Did you think I was gonna let the kid do it?”

“ _Why didn't you wait for me?_ ”

Further arguments died on Dean's tongue. Cas's voice was still tight with anger, his body practically vibrating with rage. “We were running out of time,” he managed to protest weakly.

“I would have been fast enough to detonate the explosives, _and_ I would not have been harmed when the building collapsed,” Cas replied. This close Dean could feel the angel's shaky inhale, and he realized that Cas wasn't furious...he was distressed.

“I wasn't thinking, man, I'm sorry,” Dean gently patted at one of Cas's arms. “I just had to stop Jack before he threw his life away. I just...it's my job, right? Gotta protect Jack and Sammy, and...and those kids.”

“And it's my job to protect you!” Cas said, pulling away from Dean to look him in the eye. “So would you stop trying to throw your life away and just _let me_?”

There were tears in Cas's eyes. Dean rested one hand on his friend's shoulder but just couldn't find the words to say. “I don't....” He closed his eyes and lowered his head, unable to look at the pain in Cas's face any longer. “I'll try,” Dean finally offered weakly.

Cas's shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah. I did the wing thing. 
> 
> Man, Plothole Villains are the best :D


	10. They Look So Pretty When They Bleed (Blood Loss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU of episode 15.09, “The Trap”. Separated in Purgatory, Castiel finds himself in the hands of the leviathan who have taken him captive for a sinister purpose, only to be rescued by an unlikely ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did something similar in Time for Whump, Boys, but this is different. I promise. Also less cringe at the end.

One of the leviathan, armed with a crude stone ax, broke the lines of the angel trap. Before Castiel could take advantage of his returning grace the others had tackled him, binding his wrists with coarse rope and hauling him away from the clearing. He tried to look back to see if Dean was safe but they surrounded him to propel him forward.

“The human's dead anyway,” one of the leviathan sneered in his ear. “He'll never make it to the exit. You should have just let us gut 'im.”

Castiel flinched away from the creature's glistening teeth. They didn't know about Michael's rift or they would have killed Dean on the spot rather than accept Castiel's bargain. He'd promised to submit and go peacefully to face whatever judgment Eve required, but in truth he was waiting for the best opportunity to break away. There had to be more leviathan blooms somewhere, and even with the dark influence of Purgatory pressing down around him an angel was more than a match for a dozen leviathan.

After perhaps ninety minutes of walking, during which time Castiel valiantly hoped Dean had woken up and started back for the rift rather than on some insane rescue, they broke through the forest into another clearing. This one had a broad stone altar in the center and a handful of torches scattered around.

“Where's Lud?” one of the leviathan called.

“He's on his way,” another answered. She had a coil of rope over her arm and was brushing leaves off of the altar to reveal a carved design. “Should we wait for the others?”

The leviathan holding Castiel's arm shook his head. “Can't risk the rebels finding out. As soon as Lud gets back we'll start the ceremony.”

Ceremony? “I thought you were taking me to see Eve,” Castiel said as the leviathan moved around him to prepared for a ritual. “This was not our agreement.”

“We are,” the leviathan holding him answered. “Samlah?”

“Ready,” the woman called back. She stepped away from the altar to reveal the intricate angel trap etched into its surface. “And Lud's here.”

Another one came jogging out of the trees, a roll of animal pelt under one arm. “We've only got three left, Tema” he said to the one holding Castiel.

“It's enough,” Tema replied. “Do it.”

The leviathan named Lud rolled out the animal pelt on the ground near the altar. It had an assortment of crude surgical tools made of rock and bone, some crumbled leaves from a plant Castiel didn't recognize, and three dirty syringes. As Castiel stared Lud rolled up one sleeve to plunge a syringe into the crook of his arm, drawing out vile black blood.

“Altar,” Tema snapped.

Castiel didn't wait to see what the leviathan had planned. He twisted away to break out of Tema's grip, snapping the weak bonds on his wrists as he did so. The leviathan roared in fury, its brothers answering its cry. They charged, wielding their rough weapons, faces morphing into nightmares.

They had taken his angel blade when they captured him, but Castiel met the assault head-on. He caught the wrist of the first attacker and twisted it back, slamming his knee into the elbow joint so the leviathan dropped the stone knife it had been carrying. He picked up the knife to block the next attack but a rock caught him in the shoulder and spun him off-balance so that the leviathan's club landed on his outstretched arm instead.

More rocks struck him across the back. Someone got hold of his arm and swung him around into another leviathan's fist. He reeled back and more hands grabbed him by the shoulders. Something slammed against his knees, making them buckle. His arms were pulled away from his sides, forcing his elbows and shoulders to lock so he couldn't pull away.

“Hurry,” Tema said, unruffled by the short fight. “We're too exposed here.

Lud was walking toward them, three syringes filled with blood in his hands. “Will this be enough?”

“It better be,” Tema replied. “Do it.”

The leviathan walked around behind Castiel. A hand tangled in his hair to force his head down, then the sharp pain of a needle pierced his neck. He might have screamed, except that the pain caused his body to lock up even down to his lungs.

Demon blood would burn an angel from the inside out.

Leviathan blood was primordial ice.

Castiel was barely aware of the hands hauling him to the altar as his body twisted in agony. They laid him out on the stone and tied his hands and feet down, and the moment he was within the angel trap his grace shut down and the leviathin blood tore into him. He couldn't get enough air in to make a sound, much less a feeble attempt to free himself.

Tema leaned over him, holding a small stone blade that looked like a crude scalpel. “You see, Mother isn't here. We returned to Purgatory but she was sent somewhere deeper.” He pressed the tip of the blade to the inside of Castiel's elbow and dragged it down, opening the skin so that blood flowed over the angel's arm and onto the altar. “Only a very special sacrifice will bring her back.”

Another leviathan cut into his other arm. The his inner thigh down to his knees, then the bottoms of his feet. The backs of his calves. The lowest ribs on each side. The blood pooled beneath his body, filling the lines of the angel trap.

Samlah was leaning over him, too, casually studying the bloodied knife in her hands. “I keep forgetting,” she mused.

“What?” Tema demanded.

“Angels really aren't much to look at,” she explained, face splitting into a nightmare grin. “But they sure are pretty when they bleed.”

Tema answered with a grin of his own. “Let's begin.”

A howl rent the dark forest around them. The leviathan leader swore and dropped his stone scalpel. “The rebels,” he hissed. “Spread out.”

There was a commotion at the edge of the clearing. The paralysis of the leviathan had worn off enough that Castiel could crane his neck to see what was happening, but there wasn't much more than the confused shadows of a fight. The howl had sounded like a werewolf, but he couldn't think why one of them would attack such a large group of leviathan.

Others were joining the battle now. He thought he saw a wolf bound into the clearing, shifting into a man in time to knock the blade out of a leviathan's hand. Someone leaped onto the altar, feet on either side of Castiel's body, and when they arched back to let out a scream of challenge he caught sight of their fangs.

Werewolves, skinwalkers, vampires...what could have brought them all together to challenge the leviathan?

A smaller, slight figure slipped out of the trees and dropped to her knees beside the altar. “Castiel?”

He stared at her, at the long brown hair and intense, dark eyes. “Lenore?”

The vampire smiled in relief. “Hold on, I'm gonna cut you free.” She grabbed the scalpel that Tema had dropped and sawed at the ropes that held Castiel's wrists and ankles. There was nothing she could do for his injuries, but if he could get off the angel trap then his grace might be able to purge the rest of theone of leviathan blood.

“Can you stand?” Lenore asked, leaning close to be heard over the din of battle.

“Angel trap,” Castiel shook his head. “We need to break one of the lines.”

Lenore studied the trap for a moment, then picked up a fallen rock from beside the altar. She brought it down on one edge of the trap, hammering at it over and over until one of the intersecting lines crumbled into itself.

His grace broke free with a howl, though it wasn't quite enough to restore his full strength. He rolled off the altar with Lenore's help, accepting her enhanced strength to stay upright. “We have to go,” she said, wrapping his arm around her slender shoulders. “The others will keep the leviathan distracted.”

Castiel focused on the vampire at his side as she lead him, stumbling, away from the light of the clearing into the woods. Questions swirled in his head, but he made himself focus on staying upright and following Lenore as she lead him deeper into the shadows of the trees.

“Where are we going?” he asked as they stumbled down a faint trail. The sound of battle was growing fainter, but they were still too close for Castiel's liking.

“I just have to get you away,” Lenore explained. “When he finds us he can explain.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who 'he' was, but something crashed into them and sent them tumbling to the forest floor. Lenore was wrenched from Castiel's side and flung deeper into the trees, then Tema was picking Castiel up and slamming him against a nearby tree, a feral growl deep in his chest.

“Where do you think you're going?” he snarled.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” a deeper voice drawled from behind Tema. Before the leviathan had time to respond he was torn away from Castiel. The angel had a glimpse of a tall figure with broad shoulders throwing the leviathan to the ground, before Lenore managed to make it back to his side.

“Come on,” she urged, tugging him forward. She held him up when he stumbled and together they limped down the faint trail. “Benny's got this, we need to move.”

“Benny?” Castiel tried to look behind them but Lenore pulled on his arm.

“We have to _go_ ,” she insisted.

_Cas?_

“Dean?”

 _Cas, I hope you can hear me_.

Dean was praying. Castiel grit his teeth and limped after Lenore, forcing his exhausted body to keep moving forward as his friend's words echoed in his mind. Words of pain and absolution, as cathartic for man as for angel. He focused on the words instead of his ailing body, until his legs collapsed as the last dregs of strength left him.

“Get back up, please, we're almost there,” Lenore urged.

Castiel let the vampire leaver him back up, but he was forced to lean most of his weight on her to stay standing. “Where are you taking me?”

“To the rift. One of our scouts found it, we followed your trail from there. Benny thought the leviathan might be trying something when they left your human friend behind to take you to their altar.”

“'Course I was right, hot wings,” Benny announced, shoving his way through the undergrowth to join them. “Summoning Mama from the underworld. Guess they thought it was poetic to use you.”

Castiel studied the vampire, too exhausted to be surprised at his presence. “They told us you were dead.”

Benny threw his head back and laughed. “Me? Darlin, there ain't a creature in here that would lay a hand on me except Mama's little bitches. They all know the Winchesters sent me here to run the place.”

“That's not what happened,” Castiel protested, brow furrowed.

Benny held a finger to his lips and winked. “Our little secret, Cas.”

“We should get moving,” Lenore interrupted. “Dean should reach the rift before long.”

“Wait,” Castiel pulled back when Benny stepped forward to support him. “I can't go back.”

“Not again, Cas,” Benny growled. “You know it almost killed Dean last time? You're goin' back with him if I have to chuck you through the rift with my bare hands.”

Castiel shook his head. “We came here for something. A leviathan blossom. I can't leave until I find one of those.”

The vampires exchanged a puzzled glance. “Why do you want one of those?” Lenore asked.

“We need it to stop God.”

Silence fell between the three of them, then Benny raised his hands and chuckled. “I'm not even gonna ask. Lenore, you get hot wings here to the rift, I'll go get him his little flower.”

With a final wave the big vampire trotted off, leaving Lenore to wrap one arm around Castiel's waist to support him as they made their way toward the rift.

“I never got the chance to apologize,” Castiel said after a few minutes had passed.

“To me?” Lenore shook her head. “For what?”

“For ending your life. I was caught up with the complications of my own deceptions and never considered another alternative. You would potentially have returned to yourself once we destroyed Eve.”

“Castiel, I had killed someone,” Lenore replied gently. “I was so sickened with myself for doing it, and it was even worse because I didn't want to stop. I was grateful, really. I died while I still had control of my mind, not when I was the monster I'd fought to be my whole life.

“And this place may not be heaven, but it's getting better. There's a group of us who look out for each other now. It's not the same constant struggle for survival it was before Benny returned.”

“Is he the king of Purgatory?”

Lenore gave a soft laugh. “Maybe someday,” she said as the soft glow of the rift came into sight.

“Cas?” Dean was there, next to the rift, phone in his hand. Castiel could see the timer still counting down, just a few minutes left until the rift would close. The hunter's eyes were wide, then he was striding across the clearing and pulling Castiel into an embrace.

It hurt—Dean was unintentionally putting pressure on the wounds in Castiel's sides—but he let himself soak in the warmth of his friend's arms. “Dammit, man, I didn't think you were gonna make it.”

“I wouldn't have without Lenore's assistance,” Castiel explained as Dean stepped back, maintaining a supportive hold on Castiel's arm.

“Who?” Dean glanced at the vampire, who was waiting a few paces away. His brow furrowed for a moment in concentration, then he straightened up. “Hey, aren't you...?”

Lenore tilted her head. “I wish it were under better circumstances, but it's good to see you again.”

“Yeah...” Dean nodded. “Thanks for...” he trailed off, jerking his head toward Castiel.

“You'd better hurry,” Lenore said. “I think you only have a few minutes.”

Castiel pulled back against Dean as the hunter turned for the rift. “What about Benny?”

“Benny?” Dean whipped back around. “He's alive?”

“He said he would try to find a leviathan blossom.”

Lenore shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I don't think that's possible. They just aren't very common, and most of them are heavily guarded by the leviathan themselves. I don't think he can find one and make it back in time.”

“Aw, where's your faith in me? You're breakin' my heart.” Benny leaped down from one of the trees above them, straightening up to his full height when he landed and holding a bright red blossom in front of Castiel with a teasing grin. “Your flower, sweetheart?”

Castiel rolled his eyes but accepted the blossom. “I am not your sweetheart,” he grumbled.

Benny winked at him and turned to Dean, pulling the hunter into a one-armed hug. “Good to see you, brother.”

“Benny, man,” Dean slapped the vampire on the back. “They said you were dead.”

“Can't believe you lost faith in me. Hot wings over there I can handle, but you, Dean? For shame.”

Dean managed a weak chuckle. “Hey, man, we could really use your help with what's going on.”

Castiel stiffened. While he had no grudge against the vampire, he wasn't sure it was such a good idea to invite him back to the living world. Especially with Lenore right there, with no way for her to crossover.

But Benny was already shaking his head. “Sorry, Dean. I got a lot of people back here who need me now.”

“Yeah,” Dean let out a sigh, hefting Castiel a little closer for support. “Well, you take care of yourself.”

Lenore had slipped up to Benny's side, and Castiel thought he saw her slide her hand into the bigger vampire's. “We'll catch you next time,” Benny said.

Dean held a hand up in farewell, then turned to help Castiel through the rift. “Crazy vamp,” he muttered. “How many times does he think we're gonna come back here?”

Judging by the peal of laughter from Benny just before the rift snapped shut, the vampire had heard them.

And, judging by the grin on Dean's face, that had been his intent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I seek to repair one of the greatest sins of season fifteen.
> 
> THEY KILLED BENNY!
> 
> OFF-SCREEN!!
> 
> LIKE A BITCH!!!
> 
> *ahem* We now return you to your regularly scheduled fanfiction.


	11. Psych 101 (Crying)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean brings home an unexpected windfall that brings up some bad memories for Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for blood and torture in this one.

Dean was _whistling_ when he came back from the grocery store. Sam always knew his brother was more of a social person than he let on, but he wasn't usually this cheerful after interacting with the residents of their small town.

“You're in a good mood,” Sam remarked, leaning against the counter as Dean lined up the bags from the store. “Did Becky finally give you her phone number?”

“You know that little butcher shop off Main?” Dean asked, ignoring the comment about his favorite cashier. She was in her sixties, looked a little bit like Mrs. Potts from _Beauty and the Beast_ , and pinched his cheek like he was five years old every time she saw him.

“What about it?” Sam leaned forward to study the packages Dean was unloading. Those weren't from the grocery store.

“Their freezer crapped out this morning,” Dean explained, hefting a package wrapped in brown paper. “They had a sale on _everything_.”

Sam made a face and instantly moved a step back. “Dean, you know I don't eat that stuff,” he complained. He could already smell the iron, sitting in the back of his throat like putting a penny in his mouth.

“Hey, you're not the only one living here, Sammy,” Dean retorted. “Don't worry, I'll grill some lettuce or something for you.

He shook his head and tried to back away, but could only stare in mounting horror as Dean piled package after package on the kitchen counter. Some of them were wet and dripping, staining everything they touched.

 _It wouldn't come off his skin, no matter how hard he scrubbed at it. Lucifer's voice echoed in his mind—or was it his ears—quoting_ Macbeth _now._

“ _Ooh, here, Sammy, let me help you,” the devil whispered, peeling back the skin on Sam's right hand..._

“Sammy!”

Sam jerked, forcing his mind to focus on the situation at hand. “Yeah?”

Dean was staring at him now, face tight with worry. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just,” Sam blew out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. It had been so long. He had to be okay now. It was just a bad day. “Just tired,” he finished lamely.

“You sure?” Dean asked. He came around the corner, hands out as though to support Sam, but _his hands were stained with blood. As Sam stared in horror, Dean staggered against the counter and coughed until blood trickled out of his mouth. He stared at his brother, helpless, while Dean collapsed to the floor of the kitchen._

_Around him the walls were slowly peeling away, revealing the darkness and fire of the cage. His skin was blistering in the heat, peeling away from his bones in ragged clumps._

“ _That was fun,” Lucifer said in his ear. The devil's touch was cold against the roaring heat of the cage, but that was somehow worse. Dean's corpse (not corpse not corpse not corpse) twitched on the ground, blood disappearing into the darkness around them. “Wasn't it nice to see big brother again?”_

“Sammy!”

Dean was standing over him, one hand on his face. Strong and whole and alive, not in the cage. “D-Dean?”

“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean grabbed him by the elbows and steered him to the chair. “What is going on?”

Sam shook his head. He was supposed to be okay now. Cas had taken the scars away. “I'm fine.”

“That's crap, dude,” Dean said with a snort. “Come on.”

“I'm fine,” Sam insisted. “Just go, put your meat away.”

As he'd hoped, that earned him a juvenile smile from his brother. Great, he just had to come up with more innuendo to keep Dean distracted until he could get away from the slaughterhouse.

“Dude, check it out,” Dean was saying, back at the counter again. He had one of the larger packages in his hands and was peeling away the corner of the wrapper. “Baby back-”

_Ribs. He tried not to look down as the devil walked around his body, scalpel in hand. Lucifer took great pleasure in carving his skin off in hand-sized pieces, saying a true master could flay a victim in one piece but he'd always preferred the old-fashioned way._

“ _Remind me again why we're here?” Lucifer prompted. He had a hand on Sam's ribcage now, fingers tracing through the ridges of muscle and sinew. “Who dropped us in here?”_

_Sam couldn't answer if he wanted to. All he could taste was blood. He coughed it up by the mouthful from lungs that shouldn't even work anymore. It ran down the sides of his face into his ears, his hair._

_There was a crack, a burst of pain, and Lucifer was waving one of Sam's ribs in front of his face. “Pay attention, bunk buddy. I asked you a question.”_

He was soaked. Sam spluttered out a protest, hands up to wipe water out of his eyes.

“Hey, hey, you're okay.” Dean was kneeling in front of him, empty glass in his hand. “Come on, man. I haven't seen you this out of it in a while. What's going on?”

Sam stared down at his brother, shivering a little from the water that had been dumped on his head. His eyes flickered guiltily to the packages Dean had brought from the butcher's shop and he dropped his head in shame.

He knew Dean understood what had happened when his older brother swore. “Come on, let's go,” Dean said. He had Sam by the arms, hauling him to his feet. “Keep your eyes closed, kiddo. Let's get out of here.”

He let Dean steer him out of the kitchen and down the hall. Tears were pricking in his eyes, fear and shame and embarrassment all coiling around inside him. Sam barely noticed when Dean pushed him into a chair and just crouched in front of him, hands still on his arms.

“Sammy?”

Sam sucked in a breath and tried to control himself. Hell was years ago. He could eat meat again, he'd even stayed in the kitchen the last time Dean had cooked steaks (although he hadn't been near the stove). It was over. He was okay now.

“Come on, man,” Dean said gently. A rough hand brushed his face, and to Sam's humiliation he realized he was crying. “Tell me? Please?”

It was the _please_ that broke him. Sam lunged forward, wrapping his arms around his brother, burying his tears in the older man's shoulder. “I kept seeing...kept seeing....”

“It's okay,” Dean murmured. One hand rested on the back of Sam's hair, pressing him in close. It didn't feel restrictive, just _safe_. “You're okay, I've gotcha.”

“I should be!” Sam protested. He shoved away from Dean and wiped at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It's just _meat_ but I look at it and all I see is the cage and it's been _years_ and he's still controlling me!”

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Dean said. He gently caught Sam's wrists and pulled his hands away from his face. “I wouldn't have brought it home if I'd known it would upset you. I'm sorry, man.”

Sam was already shaking his head as his brother spoke. “It's just so stupid.”

“Don't say that,” Dean pulled him close again, and this time Sam collapsed into his brother's embrace. “I'll put it in the deep freeze. We can figure it out later, okay?”

Sam knew he was lying. Dean was going to throw it all out as soon as he got away from Sam, but he was pretending to save it for later so Sam wouldn't argue about wasting money and food. Even so, he felt too weak to protest, and just the thought of all that meat just sitting there in the kitchen made his stomach turn.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered into his brother's shoulder.”

“Don't be, kiddo,” Dean whispered back. “It's gonna be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read my work, you might remember from chapter 15 of "Time for Whump, Boys" that I had Sam have some trouble dealing with burn victims and even meat to an extent because of his time in the cage (and that that was part of why he was vegetarian). This is kind of an extension of that idea.


	12. I Think I've Broken Something (Broken Bones)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack takes a tumble during a routine case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one tonight. My mom tested positive for Covid-19, so I'm not in the best state of mind but needing to do something to keep things normal. Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers.

Dean hated it when they ran.

He and the kid had been tailing a suspected witch while Cas and Sammy did their nerd thing at the library. The suspect, of course, had gotten suspicious and had gone down an alley only to double back and catch them in the act of following him. Dean had tried to play it off, like he and Jack were actually just going down a random alley in Stickville, Nowhere, but Jack had no such luck.

* * *

The kid had frozen, stared at the witch in abject horror, and actually gone for the blade he kept in his belt. The witch (suspected witch, Sam would say) shoved a couple of garbage cans over onto the hunters and took off down the street.

Dean wasn't in bad shape, but he had to face the truth that he was getting older. Maybe he wasn't quite decrepit yet, but the time would come when he wouldn't be able to sprint after suspected witches in a suit and dress shoes. That's why he let the kid go ahead of him—because Jack needed the practice. It had nothing to do with needing more time to recover from things like sprains and twisted ankles now that he was on the downhill side of forty, it was just that the kid didn't get many chances to tackle suspects.

Sam had been encouraging Jack to go running with him every morning, and as a result the kid actually had built up a good turn of speed. Dean let him go on ahead, but managed to keep up a few yards behind. He could remember being that young and invincible, no need to ruin Jack's fun.

They were approaching a sharp drop in the embankment that lead to the river, and Dean wasn't at all surprised to see the suspected witch heading for the old railway bridge. Jack saw, too, and pumped his arms harder to dig out another burst of speed to catch up to the running man.

Dean let out a whoop of victory when Jack took a flying leap and grabbed the suspected witch around the wait, but the kid hadn't quite planned his moves too well and the two of them went tumbling end over end down the embankment. Dean winced, hesitated for just a second, the trotted up to the point where he'd seen Jack and the other man disappear.

“You okay, kid?” he called down.

Jack and the suspected witch were sprawled on top of each other in the mud. The suspec—okay, screw it. The witch was groaning and holding his head, clearly dazed from the landing. Jack was sitting with one leg out and one curled beneath him, a confused expression on his face.

“Jack? You okay?” Dean called again.

This time the kid looked up. “Of course,” he answered, though to Dean it sounded like he was putting a little too much bravado into his words. “Just let me...”

Things almost seemed to happen in slow motion then. Jack surged to his feet, ready to slap anti-witch cuffs on the other man. Then his face turned pale...then green...and he keeled over backward into the mud.

Dean shouted the kid's name and half-ran, half-slid down the embankment. “Jack? Come on, kid, what's wrong?”

He knelt in the mud at the kid's side, hovering uncertainly, looking for obvious signs of wounds. Jack groaned and tried to prop himself up on one elbow, only to sink back into the mud. “Something's wrong with my ankle.”

“Ankle, huh?” Kid probably sprained it falling down the hill. Dean twisted to look, and Jack's ankle...

Jack's ankle...

Jack's ankle was twisted in entirely the wrong direction, one foot at a right angle to the other.

“Is it bad?” Jack asked in a small, scared voice.

Dean swallowed back his nausea and patted the kid on the chest, all the while digging out his phone and mashing Cas’s speed-dial. “What? Oh, no, you’ll be fine. Back to wind sprints with Sammy before you know it.”

Jack let out a groan and lay back in the mud. “I don’t think I like running anymore, Dean.”


	13. Breathe In, Breathe Out (Chemical Pneumonia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight with a poltergeist nearly drowns a member of Team Free Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I'd get this one when I have a cold 🤣

“Where's Cas?” Dean demanded as soon as Sam ducked behind the same counter where the older Winchester had taken shelter.

“Pool house,” Sam replied, jerking his head toward the back door of the old manor's hall. Ever since Castiel had become human, Dean had been treating him like he was somehow more fragile than the rest of them. Cas had _always_ been able to take care of himself, with or without his powers. Sam was getting tired of it, he knew Cas was getting tired of it—even Jack had clued in that Dean was going a little overboard.

Dean was shaking his head as he reloaded the spare magazines for his shotgun. “Any luck finding the bones yet?”

“Nothing.” Sam blew out a sigh and let his head rest against the counter. Dean snapped his fingers urgently and Sam passed over his own empty magazine. “I mean, maybe you had a point earlier.”

“'Course I did,” Dean retorted. “I'm a friggin' genius.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “When you said she'd remodeled this place so much it was practically a part of her. I think the house counts as her remains.”

“Yeah?” Dean flipped the refilled magazine back to Sam. “What about it?”

“I think we need to torch the place.” The old manor was on the historic register, so he hated to do it...but kids kept exploring the old place and getting hurt, or even killed. They'd spent days going through every room, every item, and found nothing to point them to the remains of Emma Chandler, who had died nearly forty years ago. The house had been handed down to members of her family, who had used it as a vacation home until the poltergeist activity had gotten too dangerous and they'd abandoned it.

She wasn't too happy with them by now, and they'd been dodging poltergeist activity left and right. The house was too big for a purifying ritual, unless they could trap her spirit in one spot, and she'd been incredibly hard to pin down. They laid salt lines and she tossed furniture across them, burned sage and she kicked up a wind to blow it out. The only thing that stopped her for a moment were salt rounds, and even then the magazines for their shotguns only held five rounds at a time.

“Guess we need the flame thrower,” Dean quipped.

Sam had opened his mouth to answer (they could set a fire that would be deemed accidental and _not_ have the police looking for them for once), when an ear-splitting scream rent the air around them. It was usually the sign that Emma had materialized nearby, but to Sam's horror the sound was coming from the beyond the back of the hall.

“Pool house,” he gasped, surging to his feet to sprint out the back door. The yard was overgrown with weeds and vines, but with Emma's focus in the pool house there wasn't anything to trip them up on the way. He heard a shotgun blast, a screech of fury, and something large and dark flew across one of the windows to crash against the wall inside.

“Cas!” Dean shouted, somehow moving even faster than Sam. He reached the door first and simply lowered his shoulders and charged through. Thank goodness there had been too much iron in the door for Emma to lock them out.

Cas was on the far side of the pool. The water was murky but still smelled strongly of chlorine, from the owner's failed attempts to “shock” the water a few months before, and the smell permeated the air of the pool house until it was almost unbreathable. The former angel struggled to his feet, shotgun held out before him, but Emma materialized just beside him to knock the shotgun out of his hand.

“No!” Dean yelled, bringing his own gun up to bear on her flickering form. She gave a screech and vanished, then Cas's body pitched forward as though dragged by invisible hands and plunged into the pool.

Dean swore and began sprinting around the edge of the pool to get to the side nearest Cas, while Sam tried to cover him with his shotgun. Emma could be anywhere, visible or not, and she was most dangerous when she could get between them.

“Cas!” Dean was leaning over the side of the pool, hand outstretched. “C'mon, I've got you.” Cas reached for him, floundering a little in his waterlogged clothes and shoes, but before Deana could grab his hand he disappeared under the surface of the water with a sharp cry.

While Dean searched for anything he could use to pull Castiel out, Sam aimed down at the water and fired two blasts into it. The impact from the salt rounds wouldn't be enough to hurt Cas, especially under water, but might be enough to disrupt Emma's spirit.

Sure enough, Cas rose to the surface, coughing and flailing. He reached for Dean again, but somehow Emma re-materialized enough to pull him back under.

“Okay. Fine!” Dean scrambled up to his knees and flipped his backpack off his shoulders. He still had almost a third of a bag of salt in there from when they'd been trying to isolate her in the house, and he unceremoniously dumped that into the pool.

Emma gave another wail and the surface of the water churned. This time when Cas surfaced, Dean managed to snag him by the sleeve and drag him bodily out of the pool. “Sammy!”

Sam was already running around the pool to join them. He dropped into a crouch, shotgun held at the ready, eyes scanning for any sign of Emma's reappearance. “We've gotta get out of here,” he commented.

“No shit,” Dean growled. “Cas, can you stand?”

The former angel was coughing and spluttering, like he'd gotten a lungful of the filthy water, but he shook his head and held his clenched fist out to Dean. “Wait,” he croaked. “I found...” he trailed off in a fit of coughing that had Sam wincing. Yeah, drowning was a lot nastier without a resident angel.

Dean let out a low whistle. Sam glanced down and saw that Cas was holding out an old-fashioned bracelet, the kind that looked like a twisted chain with a single clasp, which had a few strands of gray hair caught in it.

“Worth a shot,” Sam said when Dean looked up at him. He tightened the grip on his shotgun while Dean dug lighter fluid out of his backpack and Cas curled up with a moan on the ground behind him.

Emma appeared across the pool, screeching and snarling, and Sam took a potshot at her even though he knew she was too far away for the shot to be effective. She raised her hands into claws and charged, letting out another scream of rage, but dissipating into smoke halfway across the filthy water.

Dean rocked back on his heels, eyeing the little smoldering pile of melted metal. “Good job, Cas.”

Cas threw up.

* * *

“Pneumonia?”

Dr. Richards barely looked up from the chart as he nodded. “You said your friend fell in the pool at the house you were renting?”

Dean nodded. They'd really been too worried to concoct a story, once Cas had started complaining about his chest hurting. He couldn't stop coughing, not even long enough to take in a deep breath, and they'd hauled him to the ER despite his assurances that he could walk it off.

Who knew the angel would inherit the Winchester Stubbornness?

“It was a pretty dirty pool,” Sam said. “We weren't going to swim in it.”

The doctor nodded again. “That part doesn't really matter,” he explained, tucking the chart under his arm. “What we're looking for is the cause. If it happened in a pool, we could be looking at chemical irritation, like pneumonitis. We'll add a broad-spectrum antibiotic just in case, if the pool was in as bad disrepair as you say there could be anything swimming around in it.”

The nurse came out of Cas's room as the doctor finished. Sam thanked the doctor and followed his brother into the room, where Cas had finally been settled after a round of tests to determine the harm his dunking had caused.

Cas looked pale against the white sheets of the hospital, though there was a flush high in his cheeks from his fever. He was connected to a couple of monitors for his pulse and blood pressure, and the room was filled with the regular hiss of air from the oxygen mask strapped to Cas's face.

Dean made a dismayed sound but Sam laid a hand on his arm. “He's not ventilated,” he reminded his brother. “Just a precaution, right?”

The older Winchester managed to nod and pulled away, resting both hands on the railing at the side of Cas's bed. “We shouldn't have brought him,” he said over his shoulder. The words sounded callous, but Sam recognized the pain and vulnerability in his brother's voice. Whenever one of them got hurt, Dean took the blame for it on his own shoulders. It didn't matter that it could have been anyone in that pool house, just the fact that it happened was enough to fill Dean's heart with guilt.

“He found the bracelet,” Sam reminded him. “We would have had to burn the whole house down if it wasn't for him.”

“And he almost died,” Dean retorted. “Should've torched the place yesterday.”

Sam blew out a sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded across his chest. There was silence in the room, nothing but the _hiss-hiss, hiss-hiss_ of the respirator for a few long minutes. “The doctor said he's going to be all right,” he finally said, leaning over to catch Dean's eyes. “We caught it in time, we got him here.”

Dean finally seemed to un-clench a little. “Still wish we could lock him up at home,” he muttered out through clenched teeth.

That made Sam smile. Dean always reacted like this when one of them got hurt, then he'd be the first one to pull them back out into the hunt. It was just how he showed he cared.

“Hey,” Dean slapped him on the arm. “He's waking up.”

Sam twisted so he could see Cas's face. Between the near drowning, the pneumonia, and the drugs the hospital was pumping into his system Cas had been in and out pretty much since he'd been checked in. Sam leaned up to take his hand—Cas's hands were always so cold when he was hurt, Sam had to wonder if Jimmy had had any circulation problems.

Dean was practically hovering, one rough hand on Cas's shoulder. “Cas?”

The former angel reacted to Dean's voice, turning his way and slowly opening his eyes. Sam couldn't quite make out Cas's mumbled question, but Dean huffed out a laugh.

“Still hospital. You tried to inhale half the pool, remember?”

Castiel groaned and closed his eyes, head falling back onto his pillow. Dean patted his shoulder, then spent a few seconds fussing around with the blankets to make sure Cas was tucked in as comfortably as possible. Sam dragged a chair over next to the bed, then stretched his long legs out to rest his feet next to Cas's. “Want me to put something on?” he asked softly, reaching for the remote.

Cas gave a slight shrug, so Sam flicked around on the channels until he found an old black-and-white movie playing. Cas was already dozing off, and despite his incessant mother-henning it was starting to look like Dean wouldn't be too far behind.

The job was done, and they were all (for the most part) in one peace.

All in all, they'd definitely had worse days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about the type of bracelet, google "chain and link" bracelet. My grandmother had one of those, I always thought they looked kind of dangerous (ha).
> 
> My mom is doing okay, she says it just feels like the flu. Thank you for your kind words and prayers!


	14. Is Something Burning? (Fire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Dean Winchester, waking up tied to a four-poster bed wasn’t always a downside. When there was a demon with a pyromaniac streak involved, however...things were about to get hot in the wrong way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost halfway there!

Her name—no kidding—was Candy. She was matching Dean shot for shot and knew all about the local ghost legends, even the really crazy ones. He'd already gotten all the pertinent info for their case, so when Candy suggested returning to her place to continue their evening entertainment Dean couldn't see a reason to say no.

Waking up tied to a four-poster bed wasn't always a downside. Normally, with a girl like Candy, Dean might have found it kinky (if he'd seen her tie the knots and knew he could get out of it). But, waking up tied to the bed with the distinct grogginess that followed being drugged was a different story.

“Didn't know you rolled like this, sweetheart,” Dean groaned. He had to close his eyes to keep his head from spinning too badly. The last thing he remembered was Candy pouring them both a nightcap...then she'd said she had to take care of something in the bathroom before they “continued”, then nothing.

“Sorry, lover,” Candy replied. She leaned over him, and he pried his eyes open just long enough to see the piercing black staring back at him. “I've been working this town too long to let you screw it up.”

He let his head hit the bare mattress beneath him with another groan. They weren't in Candy's apartment anymore, unless her bedroom was decorated like the abandoned shack on the edge of town. He'd been here less than twelve hours ago, looking into some local omens. It had been a lot more pleasant in the daylight.

“So. All the sightings and rumors all turned out to be another black-eyed bitch,” Dean said. Candy was walking around just out of sight, and from the smell of smoke in the air he thought she might be lighting candles. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Candy leaned back over him, russet curls tumbling over his shoulder. “Oh, you know,” she murmured seductively, her breath ghosting over the curve of his ear. “Just having a little fun.”

“Fun?” Dean retorted. “Oh, I can show you a great old time, sweetheart.”

“Tempting,” Candy patted his cheek and pulled away. “You're obviously a hunter, though you weren't prepared to face someone like me tonight.”

“You're nothing,” he sneered. “Just another low-class, two-bit parasite. I've killed more of your kind than you can imagine. You think you're a monster? You think you're a nightmare? Well, _we're_ the ones who keep _you_ up at night.”

Candy growled in rage and grabbed his face in one hand, squeezing at the base of his jaw to force his mouth open. “You won't live to regret that,” she hissed as she crammed a rag into his mouth. “You're going to die. This two-bit black-eyed bitch is going to end the famous Dean Winchester.”

He craned his neck to follow her movements around the ramshackle room, trying to spit the gag out to no avail. “They'll be talking about this one for years,” Candy taunted as she touched a lit candle to the fluttering shreds of curtain at one of the windows. “Was it a sacrifice or a kink gone wrong?”

The curtain caught and the flame spread up the ragged fabric to lick at the ceiling. Dean stared at it in horror and pulled against the ropes binding him to the bed, screaming at the demon through his gag. She walked calmly to the other side of the room to light the curtains on the other window, the dancing flames casting eerie reflections on her pale skin.

“I guess this is good-bye,” Candy sighed. “Well, if you come back this time, look me up. I'm sure we could have some more fun.” With a teasing wave of her hand she slipped out the door, and Dean heard her drag something heavy in front of it.

He redoubled his efforts to pull at the ropes. The one around his right wrist had some give to it, and he thought he felt the bedpost creaking though it was hard to tell with the roar of the flames around him. The fire had spread across the ceiling above him and was quickly consuming the half-rotted walls. The heat and smoke were like a physical presence, and with his breathing already hampered by the rag in his mouth it was only getting worse.

There! The bedpost broke away and Dean immediately yanked the gag out of his mouth and tugged the collar of his t-shirt over his mouth and nose. It wouldn't be much protection, but it was better than nothing. He twisted to pry at the knots around his left wrist, even though the awkward angle and the dizziness left from the drugging made things more difficult.

Something crackled overhead and he stared up, then lunged over to his left just in time to avoid a piece of the ceiling that crashed down. Dean coughed and slapped at the flames that were spreading over the bed, but it was too late. He could hear someone banging on something on the other side of the door and tried to call for help but the flames and the smoke were too much and Dean had to curl back in on himself to cough into his free arm.

The flames around him suddenly shot up higher and seemed to stream away from him for a moment, and he craned his neck around to see a tall figure in the doorway. “Dean!”

“S-Sa-” Dean tried to answer his brother but the smoke was overwhelming him. Sam rushed forward, a damp bandanna wrapped around his mouth and nose, and started hacking at the ropes securing Dean's ankles and remaining wrist with a machete. Once the ropes were cut, Dean reached out to get a hand up from his brother, but to his surprise Sam just hauled him over one shoulder in a fireman's carry.

The flames were cutting them off, but Sam barely seemed to notice as he powered through the fire and falling debris to get them both out of the shack. It was all Dean could do to hang on, smoke and ash tearing through his throat.

Then it was cool, blissful fresh air, the stars overhead, Sam lowering him to the ground to cough and retch on the smoke in his lungs.

“Dean?” Sam had a hand around his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Dean feebly tried to wave at his brother in acknowledgment, but his hand just kind of flopped around on the grass. “Demon,” he finally rasped.

“Yeah, I figured. There was sulfur at the Baker house.”

Of course there was. Next time the choice was between check out the house with the supposedly possessed doll or canvass the bar for locals with more information, Sammy could take the bar. He was just about done with being drugged, kidnapped, and burned alive.

“We need to get you to the hospital,” Sam said.

“'m okay.” Dean tried to push himself up but another coughing fit struck and he collapsed back to the grass. Then again...soft beds, hot nurses, and free cable vs hunting down a demon bitch who'd already tried to set him on fire once.

“No arguments,” Sam insisted, pulling Dean to his feet.

Trying to project an air of reluctance, Dean gave a grunt of assent. He added an extra wheeze just for effect, and Sam practically carried him over to the Impala's passenger door.

Or maybe it wasn't just for effect, as little dark spots had started dancing in his vision by the time he was sitting down and belted in. He tried to slap Sam's hands away but the younger Winchester was relentless, even tucking Dean's feet into the car and closing the door for him.

All right. Maybe a little hospital. Then it was the black-eyed bitch's turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had to cut some of these down for time, so don't be surprised if a few of these pop up in the future as longer stories. Like last year, feel free to mention if you're interested in seeing any of these expanded! (Other than Isolation, because that one's already in the works)


	15. Into the Unknown (Possession)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (11.22 AU) It's finally time to beat Amara, but Dean's not letting Lucifer wear Cas to the prom. Even if that means serving as a vessel himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost didn't make it. My computer crashed hardcore and took about half of what I'd already written with it. Here's hoping it's fixed at least through the end of October.
> 
> This is an au for episode 22 of season 11 (We Happy Few), it takes place right after they make their plan to fight Amara but before they actually leave to recruit the others.

“Yeah, great, solid plan,” Dean clapped his hands. “There's, uh, there's just one thing.” Instantly all eyes were on him—Sam's were apprehensive, Chuck's were mildly curious, and Lucifer's were downright patronizing. It was the third gaze that had him swallowing and looking away. “It's...it's Cas.”

“Oh, brother,” Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Your little pet is safe with me, don't worry so much,” he sneered, resting one hand on his chest.

“That's kind of my point. Wouldn't, uh, wouldn't it be better if you were separated? If we had some additional fire power?”

Lucifer snorted and folded his arms, but it was Chuck who replied. “Castiel's in no shape to battle,” he said. “As it is, keeping him with Lucifer's vessel is probably the right move.”

“But that's _Cas's_ vessel,” Dean snapped before he could help himself. He'd known God hadn't given two shits about the angels in practically forever, but this was going too far.

Chuck held up a conciliatory hand. “Be that as it may, we don't have another vessel for Lucifer, unless one of you wants to volunteer.”

The devil leaned forward, grinning all over Cas's face. “Yeah, Sammy, what do you say? Wanna be bunk buddies again?”

Dean automatically stepped in front of his brother, earning a bitter laugh from Lucifer. “Then we go with option B.”

“We don't have time to find him another vessel either,” Chuck argued. “Trust me, Dean, this is the best way.”

“Yeah, no thanks. You've got a vessel right here.” He said the words in a rush before he could overthink them too much. Much as he hated the idea of being an angel condom—this was _Cas_. And if Castiel could be a suitable vessel for an archangel...maybe an archangel vessel could hold a lower angel, just for a little while.

“Dean?” Sam hissed, Dean waved him off to shut him up.

“It just makes sense,” he said, trying to convince the others. “Lucifer's got more than enough power on his own to take on Amara, and with both of them in there Cas can't pitch in.”

“I already told you, he's in no condition to fight,” Chuck interrupted. “There's barely anything left of him anyway, the battle would just burn him out.”

Dean flinched. It sounded an awful lot like Chuck didn't expect Cas to survive this battle. “And what about me?” he asked.

Chuck gave a long-suffering sigh and turned to face him directly. “You can't always have everything, Dean. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made.”

It was probably wrong to hate the creator of the universe, at least face-to-face, but that was what was boiling up in Dean at that moment. Chuck wanted to talk about sacrifices? When he could have stepped in and stopped this at any time?

Dean forced those comments back, knowing it would do no good to start another argument under these circumstances. “I mean this, this...connection I have. What if I try to stop you?”

Lucifer snorted again. “As if you could,” he teased. He rested one hand on Dean's shoulder—on the wrong shoulder—and squeezed lightly. “I'll make sure little Castiel has a chance to say good-bye.”

“If he was possessing me,” Dean raised his voice over the devil's teasing, “he could swap in and stop me if I tried to interfere.”

The devil was laughing again, but Chuck actually looked thoughtful. He waved one hand and Lucifer stiffened. “Let's let him decide,” Chuck said simply.

Lucifer stiffened. Then he slumped over, shoulders bent, forehead furrowed in obvious discomfort. Wary eyes darted around taking in the bunker, Chuck, the Winchesters...before resting on the ground in front of him.

Dean took a step forward. “Cas?”

When Cas raised his head enough to meet Dean's gaze, the hunter nearly stumbled back at the misery he saw there. “Hello, Dean.”

They didn't have much time. “Cas, buddy, the final battle is coming, and-”

“He already knows,” Chuck interrupted impatiently. “Castiel. Would you rather stay in there with Lucifer or hitch a ride with Dean here?” Seeing the vast change in Chuck's attitude now that his favorite son was in the background was infuriating. It was like Cas was barely worth his time, no more useful than meatsuit for the devil.

Dean angled himself between Chuck and Cas and gripped his friend by the shoulders. “Come on, man. At least until the battle is over and we can get you sole custody of your body.” He didn't care that Chuck, and probably Lucifer now, was seeing right through his story about wanting Cas to protect himself from Amara. This was all about getting his friend away from the devil.

Cas had looked down, and even now refused to meet Dean's gaze. “You don't know what you're asking.”

“I don't care,” Dean shook his head. He thought he could feel Sam moving in to stand close to his shoulder, offering support. “You've gotta get out of there, man.”

“We don't have time for this,” Chuck interrupted again. He easily moved Dean aside and stood in front of Cas, arms folded. “Your choice. You can help Lucifer win against Amara, or you can tag along with your buddy over there.”

Cas's eyes flickered to Dean's just for a moment, and he could see the depth of misery and pain the angel was holding back. He couldn't imagine Lucifer had been leaving Cas alone all this time, and while he'd never hosted the devil himself he'd seen what that had done to Sammy. And then Chuck's words...like Cas was somehow abandoning the fight by fleeing the brother who wanted nothing more than to make him suffer.

“We need you, man,” Dean said over Chuck's shoulder. There were so many things he wanted to say, he wanted to apologize, to beg for Cas to stay with them, to remind him how much they loved and cared for him. “You're our brother, Cas. You need to know that.”

This time Cas met his eyes for longer than a second. There was something else in there, some hint of turbulent emotions, and the angel gave a slow nod.

“All right!” Chuck clapped his hands. “Hold on in there, boys. This might get a little rough.” He held his hand against Cas's chest, palm out, fingers spread. Cas convulsed back, arching his back as though an invisible hook behind his sternum was holding him up, then his throat began to glow.

“He can leave himself!” Dean protested.

“We don't have time,” Chuck replied over his shoulder. Cas's mouth and eyes were glowing, and as the Winchesters watched a stream of blue-white poured out of his mouth to coil into a ball in Chuck's hand.

Chuck turned around, studying the ball of Cas's essence with a strange expression. For a moment Dean was afraid the creator was going to squeeze his fist closed and extinguish Cas for good, but he simply held the ball of light out toward Dean.

Dean opened his mouth to ask what to do next, and the light streamed out of Chuck's hand and into him. He stumbled back, feeling Sam grab him by the arms, as Cas's essence flowed into his body to settle somewhere beneath his sternum. For a split second he tasted ozone and iron, then his senses were flooded with a rush of information from a thousand senses he didn't actually have in his physical body.

“He may need a minute,” Chuck commented. For a dizzying moment Dean stared at the creator of the universe through one pair of eyes that somehow saw in a dozen different dimension, then the world went black.

* * *

_When Dean woke up he was lying on his back in a featureless gray room. It looked like one of the dorm rooms in the bunker, except without furniture or any distinguishing features._

“ _Hello, Dean.”_

_He whipped his head around to see Cas sitting against the opposite wall, knees drawn up to his chest. The angel looked terrible—dark circles under his eyes, face pale and fragile-looking, and somehow way too thin even though this was obviously a mental projection and not his physical form._

_Dean pushed himself up and scooted around until he was sitting cross-legged against the wall. “You all right?” he asked. Cas almost flinched at the question, and—holy shit, were those bruises? What the hell had Lucifer been doing to him?_

_His fury built at the evidence of what his friend had been through and the walls around them groaned in response. Cas looked up fearfully, eyes wild. “You're angry.”_

“ _Damn right I am!” Dean burst out. Cas flinched back again, nearly curling into himself. “Look at what he did to you? Why shouldn't I be angry!”_

_Cas wouldn't meet his eyes again. “You have every right to be angry.”_

_This was getting nowhere. Dean shoved himself up to his feet and stalked over to Cas, who seemed to be bracing himself for a confrontation. Dean lowered himself to sit next to the angel, facing him, and tried to force his voice to be gentle. “I'm angry at him, Cas. Not you.”_

“ _But this is my fault,” Cas said simply. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “After everything you've sacrificed I'm the one who let the devil walk out of the cage.”_

“ _Yeah,” Dean let out a sigh. “Not saying that was the best plan, but you were desperate.”_

_Cas shot him a glance and seemed to relax a little as though he realized Dean wasn't there to berate him. “I was just trying to help,” he said quietly._

“ _And you do help,” Dean replied. He scooted around to sit against the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder with Cas. The rumble in the walls had eased back as he got a better control over his anger—if this place reflected whatever he was feeling, he'd have to think happy thoughts or whatever. Cas was in bad enough shape as it was, he'd never get better if he was surrounded by so much anger. “I should have seen it sooner, man, I'm so sorry. I should have known that wasn't you in there.”_

_The angel sighed, and he relaxed a little bit more as Dean's remorse filtered through the room, bringing in the truth of his words. “Well, he is the father of deception.”_

_Dean snorted. “Understatement.”_

_They sat in companionable silence for a moment as Dean tried to focus on all the feelings of affection and care and trust he felt for Cas. He was determined to wrap the angel up in every bit of goodwill they could muster and send him back to his vessel even better than before. “You okay?” he finally asked after a few minutes._

_Cas brought his hands out to study them, flexing the fingers. “Lucifer is not a gentle guest,” he replied. His voice was subdued, and Dean could only imagine what Cas was trying to hide. “His very presence tore through my vessel and it was burning my grace out just to keep us both alive.”_

_Horrified, Dean could only stare at Cas's calm facade. “Your vessel?”_

“ _I'm sure Chuck can strengthen it for the confrontation.” Cas's voice was bitter and he wrapped his arms around his middle, curling in on himself again._

_Dean blew out a breath and leaned back against the wall. After a moment he wrapped on arm around Cas's shoulders and tugged him close. “After this, let's ditch the old man and hit Maui. You, me, and Sammy, nothing but warm sand and cold beer.”_

“ _Hmm,” Cas leaned his head back against the wall, his hair barely brushing Dean's arm. “If we survive this.”_

“ _Yeah. If we survive.”_

* * *

“Dean?” Sam, long floppy hair and all, was staring down worriedly into Dean's face as he regained consciousness.

He sat up, nearly knocking heads with his brother, and looked around wildly for a moment, half-expecting Cas to be next to him. It was just Sam, of course...with Chuck and Lucifer a short distance away studiously ignoring each other.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked quietly. “You know...both of you?”

Dean rested a hand over his heart, where he was sure he could feel a flutter of Cas's presence. “Just fine, Sammy. Let's get this over with.”


	16. The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (Hallucination)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A failed attempt to kill a witch leaves Jack fighting a curse that threatens his sanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Fleas. No actual creepy crawlies, but a similar situation to a bad flea infestation.

The witch gave a shriek and blew a handful of powder into Jack's face. The young man reared back with a curse, futilely wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, while Sam went in for the killing blow.

Or tried to, at any rate. She threw more powder at him and he managed to dodge aside, but that lapse in concentration was enough for her to blind him with a flash of light and make her escape.

“You okay, Jack?” Sam asked as he shook his head and tried to blink the spots out of his eyes.

“I think so,” Jack replied. “She was fast for an old lady.”

Sam gave a snort. “Tell me about it. Dean's not gonna be happy about this.”

Jack heaved out a sigh that seemed far too mature for his age and turned to study the artifacts arrayed on the walls of the witch's den. “Maybe we can still find a clue or something?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam replied. He was already texting out a message to his brother and secretly dreading the reply. What, the resident moose and Lucifer's son couldn't handle on measly black magic grandma?

He could hear Jack muttering something and turned around in time to see the younger man scratch at his arm irritably. “Jack?”

“I think she has fleas,” Jack complained. He switched hands to scratch the other arm, then gave up and clawed at the collar of his shirt. “Don't people with cats usually get fleas?”

“Not if they're taking care of them,” Sam said, staring around the room for evidence of a pet of some kind. There was a ferret cage, but no ferret...didn't mean there couldn't be fleas, he supposed. “I'll see if she's got clove oil, if you add that to your shampoo back at the hotel it'll take care of them.” They could thank Bobby for that one. Even if he didn't always like the smell, after so many crappy motel rooms Sam was glad for the old hunter's little tricks to keep the creepy crawlies away.

“How come they're not biting you?” Jack's face was screwed up in misery as he scratched at the back of his neck, then across his chest with both hands.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, don't do that,” Sam cross the room in a few long strides and caught Jack's wrists, pulling them away from his body. “All right, let's get out of here, no use scratching yourself to pieces.”

Jack gave a hiss of discomfort and tried to twist away from Sam. “It's getting worse!”

Sam looked down at the younger man worriedly. He couldn't _see_ any fleas, though that didn't mean they weren't there. If Jack was having this bad of a reaction, though, there should be some kind of physical evidence. Not to mention Sam himself should be a target as well.

Finally pulling away from Sam, Jack tore at the collar of his shirt until the fabric ripped away. He dug his fingers into the skin of his collarbone and left angry red marks behind as he scratched. “They're under my skin,” he cried. “Get them out! Sam, get them out!”

Helpless, Sam stared as Jack twisted on the floor, tearing at his clothing to dig at the skin underneath. He dropped to his knees and tried to restrain Jack, but somehow the younger man found the strength to throw of Sam's much larger body.

Jack let out a pitiful cry and crawled away from Sam, leaving bloodied streaks in the carpet. He was crawling toward the fireplace, and Sam didn't want to know how much damage he could do if he got hold of one of the tools there. He picked Jack up by the waist, bodily hauling him through the witch's house to the biggest bathroom, where a claw-footed tub stood in the middle of the floor.

Sam dumped Jack unceremoniously in the tub and started the water. He grabbed Jack by the wrists and twisted just enough leverage to keep the younger man still, though Jack still cried and thrashed against him.

“They're all over me!” Jack shrieked. “Why won't you do something? They're eating me alive!”

“I know, I know,” Sam tried to be soothing but his voice was shaking. It had to be a spell, right? She got that powder in Jack's face, maybe it was some kind of itching spell. “I'm trying to help but you have to let me, all right?”

Jack's voice had broken off into strangled moan and he slammed his head against the side of the tub. “Get them out!”

Sam let out a string of curses and dropped Jack's wrists to brace an arm behind his shoulders. Immediately Jack began to claw at his skin again, fighting against the rising water of the tub. Jack lunged to escape the water and clipped Sam under the chin, so that Sam fell backward momentarily stunned.

“No, Jack!” Sam tackled the younger man as Jack tried to make a run for it. He was inconsolable now, twisting and fighting as Sam held him down. He scratched at Sam with broken nails when he wasn't tearing ragged lines into his skin. Sam was just about to look for a way to knock the kid out when he heard the front door slam open.

“Dammit, Sam, answer your phone!” Dean called, storming through the witch's house and stopping in the doorway to the bathroom. He took in the scene with an odd sort of calm and raised both eyebrows. “Should I leave you two alone?”

“He's been cursed, Dean,” Sam snapped. His jaw hurt, his arms and face were scratched, and he was pretty sure he'd sprained his knee tackling Jack.

“Okay, what are we doing?” Dean crouched like he wanted to help Sam restrain Jack, but leaned back when the former nephilim took a swipe at him.

“Ritual bath,” Sam replied. “Unrefined salt, sage, lavender oil. And—dammit, Jack—we got any baking soda?”

Judging by his brother's wild-eyed expression, Dean had no idea where to find this stuff. “And we just dump it in?” he asked, casting a glance at the tub.

“Burn the sage,” Sam explained. Jack got a hand in his face and pushed him back, so that he lost his tenuous hold. Dean took the opportunity to tackle the kid himself, which Sam suspected was more to give him something physical to do instead of hunting down ingredients for a spell.

Sam climbed to his feet with a groan, tucking one arm close to his body. Dean, at least, seemed to be doing better at restraining Jack in his madness—though that might have just been because he hadn't already been scratched half to death. Sam limped into the main room of the witch's house and surveyed her potion ingredients. As he'd hoped, there was a big jar of Himalayan salt as well as lavender oil. He grabbed some clove oil for good measure, just in case—maybe it worked on magic fleas as well as mundane ones. No sage but she had a few incense sticks, and a quick trip to the kitchen rounded up the baking soda.

He was technically combining three or four purifying rituals in one, but that couldn't possibly hurt. The tub was full, so Sam shut the faucet off and tried not to notice the slight pink tinge to the water. He stirred in the salt and baking soda and sprinkled the oils over the water.

“Okay,” he called over his shoulder as he lit the incense. “Ready to dump him in?”

Dean was swearing behind him as he somehow struggled to his feet without releasing Jack. “This gonna work?”

Sam was passing the incense in clockwise circles over the tub as the others approached. “Sure. Of course.”

His older brother snorted. “Well, at least we'll come out of this smelling pretty.” Then, without ceremony, Dean dumped Jack into the tub.

There was a small tidal wave as Jack fought against the water, but with the Winchesters holding him down he was soon overpowered. Sam didn't let his head be under for more than a couple of seconds, just long enough to make sure he was covered in the ritual water. Miraculously, Jack's struggling slowed then stopped, and he lay silent in the tub with his eyes closed, panting for breath.

“Jack?” Sam asked cautiously. “How do you feel?”

Jack let out a small groan and opened his eyes. “It hurts,” he admitted.

Sam exchanged a look with Dean. “What hurts, Jack?”

The young man lifted his arm to display the scratches he'd inflicted while under the spell. “The salt.”

Ah. Right. Salt in the wounds. “How about the spell?”

Jack shook his head. “It's gone. I'm sorry, Sam.”

“Don't worry about it,” Dean replied, leaning into the water to pull Jack out. “Sam likes being scratched, don'tcha, Sammy?”

“Dean!” Scandalized, Sam smacked his older brother on the arm.

Jack blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “What does that mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did look up cleansing baths, salt water bath rituals are pretty interesting. And oil of clove is one of the essential oils that can help kill fleas, though if you're looking for a natural remedy I'd check with your vet or doctor before trying something like this because some essential oils can be really dangerous.
> 
> Guys, I made a mistake. I lived almost a year in a house with a bad flea infestation, and now I'm having sense memories and I have to go take a shower after writing that. I think I whumped myself.


	17. I Did Not See That Coming (Blackmail)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel ends up on the wrong side of some of the refugees from Apocalypse World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting a favorite plot from TWB.
> 
> Set at the end of season 13, before Lucifer returns from apocalypse world.

“It's just temporary, Cas,” Sam said for the fifth time.

They had been trying to find enough space for the refugees from the Apocalypse World, since none of them were ready to venture out into this world yet. Unfortunately, that meant Castiel would have to give up his room.

He truly didn't mind. He didn't use it for much anyway, and he and Jack could simply share a room temporarily. The Winchesters seemed to feel guilty for asking, particularly Sam, and it was taking a lot to convince his human friends that he had no problem sharing a space with his adoptive son.

“You know what, you can take my room and I'll bunk with Jack,” Sam offered.

“Sam,” Castiel rested a hand on his friend's arm to hold him in place. Sam had insisted on carrying the small box of Castiel's possessions to Jack's room, and looked like he was about to pick it up again to move to his own. “This is fine. You don't need to worry so much, I don't even need one.”

“Of course you do!” Sam shook his head. “Cas, you're part of the family. Of course you deserve your own space.”

Castiel smiled up at his friend. Ever since he had come back it seemed like the Winchesters went out of their way to include him in their family. It was nice. “Be that as it may, I will be perfectly content to share a living space with Jack.”

Sam didn't look convinced so Castiel pressed a little further. “We need a chance to...to 'catch up' anyway.” He wasn't sure that was the right idiom, but the way the younger Winchester nodded seemed to confirm his choice of words.

“All right Cas. Just let me know if you need something, all right? We can work something out if you change your mind.”

Castiel thanked his friend and waited for a few seconds while the tall man made his way out of Jack's room. It wasn't like the angel had much to unpack, just a handful of souvenirs he'd picked up over the last few years. He simply placed the entire box on the top shelf of Jack's closet—perhaps he and Jack could go through the box later and pick a few things out to decorate Jack's room.

The bunker itself was in chaos. There should have been more than enough rooms to house the refugees but it seemed there was a preservation spell of some kind on the lower halls that they hadn't been able to break. As it was, the moment he stepped out of Jack's room he was nearly bowled over by someone with an armful of musty sheets, then someone coming the other way with cushions stolen from a couch from the atrium.

In the end he retreated to the archives. He had been working through some of the missing translations there as a personal project—the old Men of Letters had amassed a vast collection of knowledge, but there were some thing even they couldn't decipher—and it seemed to be a good place to stay out of the way for the time being.

“Hey, that's him!”

Castiel looked up. He had been working through several heavy tomes of general information, but it was more tedious than he'd expected given that the tomes themselves contained disastrous inaccuracies. He would have welcomed the interruption had it been his friends, but it was two of the refugees.

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

“You're Castiel?” one asked. He was tall, perhaps as tall as Sam, with thinning brown hair that stuck up in the back. “The angel?”

Castiel inclined his head. He had been expecting a confrontation of some kind, even if the Winchesters had assured him they'd explained everything to Bobby and the other leaders of the refugees. “Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to pin you down,” the second one said. He was smaller, his dark eyes fixed on the angel's face with a menacing intensity. “Can't have you crawling around everywhere.”

“Toby,” the first man hissed. “We'd heard you were an angel, but I didn't believe. I'm Anthony.” He walked closer to Castiel, holding his hand out. After a moment's hesitation the angel clasped it, enduring the vigorous handshake that followed.

“Charlie told us what you did,” Toby snapped.

Castiel raised his eyebrows. Charlie? He'd had almost no interaction with the other version of Charlie. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You tortured her,” Toby stomped further into the room to lean on the table across from Castiel. “Her and that British asshole.”

Ah. He'd been afraid of this. “Those were not my actions,” he tried to explain.

“The other you,” Toby interrupted, waving his hand. “Same thing. You're the same person.”

He suppressed a shudder. No...no they were not. His doppelganger had been pitiful, true form twisted by years of torture and indoctrination. It had almost been a mercy kill. “I assure you, we are not.”

“Come on, Toby,” Anthony tried to persuade his friend. “The Winchesters told us, right? He's not like the others, not even like the real ones here.”

The _real ones_. Castiel fought to keep his discomfort off his face. Perhaps it was time to leave the archive—as one of the few bunker residents who was acclimated to the current state of the world (as much as he could be), perhaps they could use his assistance for a supply run.

“Of course they'd say that,” Toby replied, his sharp voice cutting into Castiel's thoughts. “They've lived with him for years, they're gonna think he's safe. They haven't seen angels the way we have.”

Castiel gently closed the volume he'd been translating, causing the men to jump guiltily as though they'd forgotten his presence. “I can assure you, I mean you no harm. If you'll excuse me, Mary might require my assistance.”

“Wait,” Toby had one hand up. “We came here with a question.”

These men were trying his patience. Castiel folded his arms and stared at them, clearing his throat after a few moments when neither spoke up.

“We just wanted to ask if you could prove it,” Anthony said softly. He'd seemed the kinder of the two at first, like he'd had a real curiosity to meet Castiel, but there was something more menacing in his voice now.

Castiel let out a sigh. “You want me to prove I won't hurt you?” He was already proving that, wasn't he? The fact that they were standing here, unharmed, despite interrupting and provoking him should have been all the proof they need.

Toby held up his other hand, displaying a gleaming circle of silver. Castiel had to fight not to take a step back...they'd found a binding collar.

Binding collars operated on much the same level as the anti-angel cuffs. They blocked an angel's connection to their grace and rendered them essentially mortal. They'd been used in Heaven for training purposes in the beginning, to teach soldiers how to fight without their connection to celestial power. Eventually it had become another punishment; as uncomfortable as being without grace on the physical plane, on the Heavenly plane it was like being deaf and blind at the bottom of the sea.

“Where did you find that?” Castiel demanded. The anti-angel weapons were supposed to be locked away for just such an occasion.

Toby shrugged. “We have our sources. We want you to wear it.”

“Absolutely not,” Castiel growled. He started to push past the men and walk out of the room, but Toby's voice called him back.

“We haven't told anyone else, you know.”

Castiel folded his arms and regarded the little man. “Told them what?”

“That it was you,” Toby retorted. “You tortured Charlie. Hey, maybe the one in our world killed you and took your place? We've got enough people who've lost family to your kind, they'd believe us in a snap.”

“And what would the Winchesters do?” Anthony pressed. “It's your word against ours and there are more of us...and we need them. They wouldn't throw all of us out for one angel, would they?”

Castiel flinched back at the words. No, he had no doubt his friends wouldn't throw him out, but his presence would make their lives much more difficult. He could leave on his own, but then his return would be dependent on the refugees finding another place to live. “What do you want?”

“Just wear it for a little while,” Toby said. He ran a finger across the activation runes and the collar split into two hinged half-circles. “It makes you human, right?”

“It's only fair,” Anthony cut in. “We don't have special powers if you go crazy. It's only fair to level the playing field.”

Castiel wanted to protest that he wouldn't 'go crazy'. He wasn't like that. He'd taken humanity's protection as the core of his very existence. Yet he knew those words wouldn't convince these men. Hesitantly he took the collar out of Toby's hand, stared at it for a few long moments, then fastened it around his neck.

It took effect instantly. He was no long aware of the souls in the bunker and the rotation of the earth, or the hissing static that used to be his connection to the host. His grace retreated deep into his body, leaving him with the strength and power of a mortal human.

He looked from one man to the other. “Is that all?” Castiel fought to keep his voice steady, even though it was difficult to ignore the danger he was now aware of. If they had gotten their hands on a binding collar, what else did they have? The bunker had many dangerous weapons and tools the Men of Letters could use against an angel, and without his grace he was practically defenseless.

“Just one thing,” Anthony said. He reared back and punched Castiel in the face, sending the angel staggering. Castiel stumbled back against the nearest wall, one hand already flying up to cover his injured cheek.

“Well?” Toby demanded.

Anthony was shaking out his hand. “Felt human.”

“Good.” Toby cracked his knuckles. “Might want to keep that a secret, angel,” he added, nodding toward the collar. “Bet you'd like being thrown out even less now.”

* * *

“Cas? What are you wearing?” Jack asked.

It had been six days since the unfortunate encounter with the two refugees. Castiel had been able to hide the collar's presence under his shirt collar, though it was more difficult to hide his growing human needs. It wasn't happening all at once, but with the more time he spent cut off from his grace he would need to eat and sleep like the rest of humanity.

Jack, of course, was the first to notice.

Castiel touched the collar gingerly. The collar's magic meant he couldn't remove it himself, though he could have talked any of his friends through the procedure. Toby and Anthony were checking in on him several times a day, though, and the lingering threat of turning the refugees against the Winchesters was still high.

“I'm regulating my power,” Castiel explained eventually. “I thought it might make the guests from the other world more comfortable to know I have no more power than they do.”

“Oh,” Jack nodded. “I guess it makes sense, but why do you need to do that? You're not like the angels from that world; you're nice.”

Castiel had to smile at the boy's simple words. If it were only that simple, but he'd seen that the men were right. He was regarded with suspicion by most of the refugees, to the point where many rooms of the bunker seemed hostile now. The other Charlie refused to be in the same room as him (he couldn't blame her, of course) and many of her allies were following her lead.

“Hey, kid,” Toby stuck his head into the room. “Can we borrow your dad for a second?”

Jack beamed at the man, though Castiel regarded him with suspicion. Toby and Anthony made a show of being tolerant of Castiel when around the others, but treating him with disdain in private. He knew the threats that would follow, though. If he refused the refugee would wheedle and beg until he could get Castiel alone, when he would take great pleasure in reminding the angel of the hold they had over him.

“I'll be back,” Castiel promised Jack and stood to follow Toby out of the room.

Toby didn't even look back to make sure Castiel was following as he lead the way to a seldom-used office on a lower floor of the bunker. Anthony was waiting there with the usual selection of syringes and empty IV bag.

Castiel couldn't comprehend what they wanted with his blood, but it was growing exhausting to replenish it so frequently. While the collar locked down his powers it had a fail-safe that would allow just enough healing to keep him alive in certain situations—such as blood loss.

“Sleeve up,” Anthony demanded as Toby half-shoved Castiel into a chair.

He hesitated. Surely... _surely_ he had proven himself enough by now? In six days he hadn't given them a moment's concern, and he'd gone along with all their little experiments. The marks in his arms were getting harder to hide, as well as the bruises on the rest of his body.

Toby growled and shoved him against the desk, pinning him in place. “He gave you an order,” he hissed in Castiel's ear as Anthony pushed the angel's sleeve up.

Castiel bit back the cry of pain as the man's hand brushed over the bruises from previous sessions, roughly manipulating Castiel's arm to find his veins.

“Other one,” Anthony complained. Toby released Castiel and sat back, giving the angel a few minutes to comply.

“We can ask Jack, you know,” Toby said darkly. “I'm sure he'd love to help us out with this. His blood wouldn't be as good as yours, of course, so we'd have to take twice as much.

Mutely, Castiel shook his head and rested his other arm on the desk, pulling the sleeve up enough to expose the crook of his elbow. Whatever they were planning...whatever they wanted from his blood...he couldn't let them involve Jack. This was beyond keeping the peace in the bunker. If he failed to cooperate these men could turn the rest of the refugees against his family, and that would mean the Winchesters and Jack would be in the line of fire.

“Was that so hard?” Toby sneered as Anthony finally set the needle. “We should have enough for the sigils soon, then this will all be over.”

Castiel looked up at that, staring between the men in bewilderment. “Sigils?” They'd said they needed to do experiments on his blood. Needed to understand what would work against an angel to arm their comrades.

“Anti-angel magic,” Toby explained. He sat on the edge of the desk to stare down at Castiel with a superior expression. “Something we came up with in our world. We need angel blood for it, of course. We could have just killed you, but that would raise questions.”

“Every angelic being in a one hundred-mile radius will be affected,” Anthony added. “Zaps your grace. I've heard it's like touching an electric fence.”

Castiel swallowed. “What about Jack?”

“Oh, he'll be fine,” Anthony's voice was studiously casual. “If he agrees to wear a collar. Like you.”

No. No, they couldn't do this. It wouldn't stop at the collar. They'd systematically dehumanize Jack until he was worthless in his own eyes. His son didn't deserve that.

He didn't deserve that.

Castiel struck. With his free hand he aimed a blow at Toby's midsection, but without his grace and with blood loss weakening his human form he could do little more than unbalance the man. He pulled his other arm away from Anthony, yanking the IV needle free, and turned to bolt for the door.

“You little bastard!” Anthony roared while Toby tackled him from behind. With his grace fettered it was down to hand-to-hand combat, and while Castiel would normally be able to handle such a fight with ease he'd been severely weakened over the last few days.

Toby had an arm around his throat and hauled him back, the wiry strength in the smaller man's arms like corded steel. Anthony was coming around the desk, hefting a baseball bat he'd been keeping concealed.

“I knew you'd turn on us one day,” Anthony hissed.

Then he swung the bat at Castiel's unprotected side.

* * *

They left him unconscious, beaten and bloodied on the floor. Castiel fought to pull himself to his feet, leaning heavily on a set of filing cabinets against the wall. He wrapped one arm around his chest for support, hissing when two of his broken ribs shifted at the touch.

He could feel his grace trickling through his body, fighting to heal the worst of the damage. But there was so much, and he had so little strength left.

One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. He managed to limp through the bunker, leaning on the wall for support, unaware of the bloody trail he left behind him. He knew he was injured and in need of assistance but couldn't figure out where to look for it. Castiel didn't know where other refugees might be in the bunker, or if any of them were in on Toby and Anthony's plan. He could be met with animosity at any corner, and many of them wouldn't hesitate to finish off a weakened angel.

He settled for Sam's room. It was closer than Dean's, and he knew the others would be more reluctant to disturb the Winchester brothers than Jack.

Though the hunter was gone the door was unlocked, and Castiel settled gratefully on the edge of the bed. He could ask Sam for help when he returned. They could remove the collar, then he would take Jack and go far away from these people until they could work out a more favorable arrangement. The boy had seen so little of the human world.

With a start Castiel realized he was lying down. He must have slipped, surely he meant to sit up to wait for Sam's return.

But the mattress was soft and his body was weak. His head pulsed in time with the beats of his heart, and he could tuck his shaking hands under his coat for warmth.

Had it always been this cold in Sam's room?

Cold...and dark...and silent.

And voices.

“ _I don't know how he got here, I walked in and he was like this._ ”

“ _What the hell's that thing? Around his neck, see?_ ”

Someone was touching him. Turning his head, peeling the collars of his jacket and shirts back. He wanted to protest at the prying hands. Couldn't they just let him be?

“ _It looks like a binding collar. I thought we locked all of those away?_ ”

“ _Well, get it off him!_ ”

“ _I know, Dean!_ ”

Warm hands settled on the cold skin of his neck. Castiel wanted to curl against them but his body seemed too heavy to move. The voice above him spoke something in a different tongue—words he thought he recognized, but it had been so long—and something around his neck broke away.

His grace poured back in with a howl.

Castiel's eyes snapped open as he sucked in a breath, staring up into the worried faces of Sam and Dean. “What...”

“You'd better tell us,” Dean replied. He was trying to look stern, but there was too much worry in his green eyes, and he was already crouched to be at Castiel's eye level and taking one of his cold hands between his own warm palms. “What the hell happened, man?”

Castiel fumbled at his neck with his free hand, finding the open binding collar. He swallowed, unsure of how to explain. Would they ask him to leave? It would be the easiest way to keep everyone safe. He would go, of course, but they had to let him take Jack. They'd have to see Jack wasn't safe, if those men truly intended to set off those anti-angel sigils.

“Cas?” Sam was leaning over him again, one hand on his shoulder. “Someone...who did this, man?”

His grace was already repairing the internal damage the bat and two sets of steel-toed boots had inflicted. He tried to push himself up with a groan, relieved when Sam helped him sit up the rest of the way.

“Cas?” Dean prompted.

Slowly, haltingly, he told the story. The veiled threats. The other refugees' mistrust. His blood, and the anti-angel magic.

“I can leave,” Castiel promised. “I don't mind. I'll take Jack and we'll go somewhere safe.”

“That's crap,” Dean snapped. He pushed away from them and stalked across the room, folding his arms. “If they don't like you being here, they can hit the road.”

“Dean's right,” Sam added. He rested a hand on Castiel's forearm, waiting until the angel turned to face him to add his own thoughts. “I mean, yeah, we want to help those guys. But you and Jack? You're family.”

“But why would you choose one life over so many?” Castiel asked. It didn't make sense. Logistically, they could do so much more good assisting the refugees than harboring one angel and a nephilim.

“Seriously?” Dean rested his hands on his hips and let out a laugh. “C'mon, Cas, that's kind of our thing.”

Sam made a face. “To the detriment of the world.”

Dean sent his brother a rude gesture, but walked back over to sit next to Castiel. “Seriously, man. You're one of us. You've gotta know we have your back.”

Castiel looked down at his hands and pushed one sleeve back to watch the bruises and needle scars fade to nothing.

One of them.

How could he have ever doubted?


	18. Panic! At the Disco (Panic Attack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for panic attacks and claustrophobia
> 
> Fun fact, though. I have agoraphobia so I panic in a lot of places, not just the disco!

He couldn't breathe.

Even though he could hear the big, noisy breaths heaving in and out of his chest, it wasn't enough. There couldn't be enough air in here. It was too tight, too thin, like he was sealed in a jar and the oxygen was running out.

It was too small. Too tight. The walls were close enough to touch on either side, the door too thick and heavy to move. Dean pushed on it, banged on it, tried to slam his body against it.

He couldn't breathe. There was a line of light coming in from under the door but it couldn't possibly be enough. The air inside the closet was echoing back his own labored breaths until he knew he could hear something else beneath them.

He wanted to call for his brother, for Cas, for anyone, but his throat was tight and if he tried to call for help the air strangled in his chest until he couldn't get a sound out. He dug at the collar of his shirt, ripping it away, then at the skin of his sternum and neck. There had to be something there, something restricting his breathing.

The air was getting too heavy. His head was getting light, and if he wasn't looking directly at the faint line of light under the door he was seeing things in the endless darkness.

Did it get smaller? Dean shoved at the walls on either side of him, convinced he'd felt one of them move. It had to be getting smaller, that was the only explanation. There wasn't room to sit and if he moved the wrong way he ran up against the wall or the immovable door.

God, why couldn't he breathe? It was so simple. People did it every day. He dug his fingers into his chest as though he could pull the muscle away to give his lungs more room.

There were words, he knew there were words. He'd worked through this before. He'd learned to cope before. But that was in the open world, beyond the tightness and darkness and heat and it was getting closer and he'd lost track of the light.

There was something slithering around his legs. He could feel it now, wrapping around his body with a physical hold. Dean tried to kick it away but only struck the door—it was something that existed in the darkness, not in the space around him. Something was wrapping around his body, squeezing out what little air he could drag in.

He couldn't pass out. Not like this. Not in here. He'd die. He'd die in the darkness and the closeness and they'd never find him, and the thing would drag him back to the pit and Alistair would be there.

The demon's hands were on his now, guiding them down. The voice in his ear...the demon's twisted words blending with his father's voice until he wasn't sure who was actually in there with him.

There couldn't be another person.

It was so dark.

There couldn't be anyone else in here, except the corpse suddenly at his hands and the demon behind him and the blade descending to innocent flesh.

“ _You always were my best student_ ”

Dean jerked away so violently he slammed into the back of the closet he was trapped in, then when he tried to lean forward to cradle his wounded head his elbows brushed against the door and another wave of panic swept over him.

It was so small. They weren't supposed to be this small. There wasn't room for him and the air was getting thinner and he couldn't see the light under the door now and something was clawing around him, all around him, claws on the walls in the dark.

They hooked into him on all sides. He jerked against them, meeting only the walls of his prison, but the things existed in the dark and he couldn't get away from them. They were around his throat, his chest, he couldn't breathe.

The air was too thin. The dark was too thick.

The claws. All around him. The harsh sounds of his own breathing (useless, useless, useless) mingled with the roar of the hounds, coming to drag him back.

Then an explosion. A rush of air. Light and lightning and a hand on his arm pulling him out of perdition.

He didn't even realize it was Cas until he was clinging to the angel, face buried in his shoulder, heaving in deep breaths that were fresh and clean and smelled a little bit like the air after a thunderstorm.

“You found him!”

Dean flinched away, even though he recognized his brother's voice. Then another hand was on his back, safe and warm, soothing away the terror of the darkness and the pit.

They were saying something—how many hours he'd been missing, how long he'd actually been locked in that closet by the fiend they were hunting. He looked over his shoulder and it was just a closet, just an empty space in the wall. Gone where the claws and the whispers and the hands tightening around his chest to squeeze his breath out.

Cas's hand was on his forehead, and though Dean didn't know if he had any physical injuries the angel's healing touch sent a wave of peace through his body. “He's exhausted,” Cas said.

“Right. Come on.” Sam was at his side now, pulling one of Dean's arms across his shoulders. He wanted to protest that he could walk, but his legs were shaking and weak and he would have fallen flat on his face without Sam and Cas's support. “Let's get you out of here.”

They left the lights on, and Cas sat next to the bed, and every time he woke up one of them was there to remind him that he was out.

He could breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean having claustrophobia is mostly headcanon for me, I admit.


	19. Broken Hearts (Grief)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A toast to the departed
> 
> (TW: canon deaths, spoilers for current season)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics at beginning and end are from "The Parting Glass", an Irish folk song. You can find several versions of it on YouTube if you want to listen to the whole thing.

_So fill to me the parting glass  
And drink a' health whate'er befall_

Sam had let the car fall silent as they pulled back on the highway out of Pennsylvania toward home. He didn't know what Dean had gone back in to ask Amara, but the older Winchester had returned convinced that the celestial being might be on their side.

The silence wasn't unwelcome, after everything that had been happening over the last few weeks and months. It seemed like their lives had been one disaster after another since the Halloween fifteen years ago when Dean had showed up to drag him back into this life.

“You okay?” he finally asked. The sun was setting, casting long shadows into the trees on either side of the road.

Dean didn't answer for a few long minutes before he finally swerved onto a little service road right before the next bridge and parked in an empty circle of gravel. “Come on.”

That was all Sam got before Dean climbed out of the car, stopping to grab a bottle of whiskey and a couple of empty solo cups from the backseat. “What are you doing?” he asked, standing up out of the car and leaning on the door to watch Dean scoot himself up on the hood, facing the river.

“Something we should've done a long time ago,” Dean called back, pouring whiskey into both cups. He held one out to Sam, eyebrows raised in impatience. “Come on, man.”

Sam let out a sigh and walked around to take the cup. He'd never really talked to Dean about the alcohol thing but it was only getting worse. Not even their dad had needed so much of this. “Dean...”

“We never gave her a proper send-off.”

The pain in his brother's words pulled Sam up short. Dean was staring out at the river, tears in his eyes, clenching the solo cup in his hand so tightly the plastic crinkled. Sam climbed up on the hood next to him and carefully maneuvered around so he was looking at the river instead of his brother. “Who, Dean?”

“Mom.”

Sam bit back a surge of grief. It was still so raw, so new, even months later. “We gave her a hunter's funeral,” he gently reminded Dean.

“That's not what I meant,” Dean shook his head. “I was so angry. At the kid, at...at Cas. I just wanted revenge, and she wouldn't have wanted that.”

He nodded, though he figured Dean wouldn't see. “She was something else.”

“She was amazing,” Dean corrected. “And I know...man, I know she wasn't perfect. But she was...she was Mom.”

“She'd have both our asses if she knew what we were doing,” Sam commented, leaning back to stare up at the darkening sky.

Dean let out a rough laugh that sounded almost like a sob. “Yeah, she would.”

They were quiet for a few more moments before Sam felt the urge to speak. “And Rowena,” he said, into the darkness, closing his eyes briefly. “She gave up everything to save the world.”

“Who would've thought,” Dean replied. “She jumped in when it counted and saved our butts.” He lifted his cup a little in a toast and took a sip from it. “Can't believe she took the reins downstairs so quickly.”

It was Sam's turn to laugh at that. “You surprised?”

“Not at all.”

“There are so many,” Dean said, after the silence had stretched out for a few more minutes. “Like Charlie. We really... _I_ really let her down.”

“That's all on me,” Sam replied. If he hadn't pulled her in to his crazy scheme to removed the Mark from Dean she might still be alive...or if he'd just done more to keep her safe, or gotten to her faster.

“It's on both of us, man. Kevin, too.”

There were so many. “Can you imagine Bobby in the bunker? Our Bobby?”

“Oh, man,” Dean let out a genuine laugh at that. “He'd've been unstoppable!”

“It'd probably be packed full of hunters by now,” Sam continued. “His own personal army.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. “We sure could use his help with this one.”

“After he called us idjits.”

“Never thought I'd miss that,” Dean added. He held his cup out toward Sam and Sam let the rims clack together.

They didn't mention their father. Some days Sam had wanted him back so badly it was like a physical pain...other days he just wanted to live long enough to forget what they'd been through.

There were others, of course. Friends and family they'd lost along the way. In the silence of the night it was almost like they were surrounded by invisible spectators, like they'd been physically calling up the memories.

“Hey, I don't think I ever told you this,” Dean suddenly interrupted Sam's train of thought. He was even quieter, one knee pulled up to rest his arm on. “I know I only met her once, but Jess seemed pretty awesome.”

That did it. Tears flowed out of Sam's eyes in earnest, as thought a dam of heartbreak had been shattered. Dean rested on hand on his shoulder and squeezed as Sam tried futilely to wipe his face dry with his sleeve.

“Here's to them,” Dean said, lifting his cup up. Sam followed, a little more shakily, then downed the whiskey in one long swig.

“We'll do you proud, guys,” he whispered.

_Then gently rise and softly call  
Good night and joy be to you all_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something cathartic about the final toast to something. We've all lost a lot this year, whether it's an actual passing of a loved one or the loss of safety and normalcy. Make sure you take time to acknowledge it and grieve its passing. Even if you don't drink, you can write or draw or sing, say a prayer or light a candle, call a friend and laugh and cry over what's been happening.
> 
> I don't mean to be morose, I guess I'm just feeling the weight of the year pretty heavily. Stay safe out there and be good to each other.


	20. Toto, I Have a Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore (Field Medicine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie is injured while hunting a werewolf at an abandoned ski slope. It turns out she reacts to head injuries in an...interesting...way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit silly, but sometimes you need that in the middle of whumptober

“I've got you, hang on,” Sam stretched out over the edge of the hill and grabbed at Charlie's arm, finally getting hold enough to haul her back to solid ground. “You okay?”

“No,” Charlie shoved an errant strand of red hair back under her beanie. “I'm freezing, there are no snowbunnies like Dean promised, and I think I twisted my ankle. Oh yeah, and there's a bloodthirsty werewolf somewhere out here!”

Sam let out a rueful chuckle. “Dean and Cas are circling around the other side of the mountain,” he replied. He helped Charlie to her feet and held her steady until she had a good foothold. “We should meet up with them in a couple of hours.”

“Why does Dean get to hog Cas all the time?” Charlie asked. “Shouldn't he, y'know, share?”

He had to bite his cheek to fight back the laugh at Charlie's words. He was not getting in between Dean and Charlie to see who deserved to hike around an abandoned ski resort with the angel. Maybe Sam deserved it, then the other two could spend some quality bonding time complaining about the snow.

“Hang on,” he held one hand up, gesturing for Charlie to stop. To her credit, she immediately froze in place, hand on the gun holstered at her side. Sam pulled his own pistol free and sighted down at a shadow he'd seen moving further down the mountain.

He moved slowly, gun drawn, sensing Charlie moving into step behind him. He'd just gotten close enough to realize the movement he'd seen was a scrap of cloth tied around the trunk of a tree when the thunder of running feet to his left alerted him to the real danger.

Charlie let out a shout of alarm, in a language he was pretty sure was Orcish, and fired wildly at the charging monster. There was a snarl of pain from the werewolf as at least one of her shots hit true, then the creature was barreling into Charlie and the two were rolling end-over-end down the snowy mountainside.

Sam gave a shout and plunged out after them, snow up to his calves past the limited shelter of the trees. He couldn't risk the shot with Charlie so close, but as he struggled closer he could see that she'd pulled out a little silver knife and was slashing at the werewolf's face and claws as it tried to savage her.

He fired into the snow, startling the werewolf so it reared up to look at him, then pegged it in the shoulder with a silver bullet. The werewolf howled in pain and dropped to a crouch over Charlie's prone body, lips pulled back to reveal snarling teeth.

Charlie pushed herself up enough to stab her silver knife into the werewolf's shoulder, the same one Sam had hit. It gave a howl of agony and grabbed Charlie by the coat with its good hand and flung her away. She struck a nearby rock and collapsed into the snow, not moving. From this distance Sam couldn't tell if she was dead or unconscious.

She was away from the werewolf, though. Sam opened fire, silver bullets thudding into the creature's chest. It jerked in the air, blood spraying out of its mouth, before falling limp and bloody and most definitely dead.

“Charlie!” Sam shoved his gun in his waistband and forced his way through the snow to his friend's side. She was lying on her side, and when Sam carefully eased her onto her back he saw blood streaking across her forehead from where she'd hit the rock. “Charlie?”

He yanked one glove off with his teeth and shoved her scarf aside until he could check her pulse, relieved to find it fast but steady. “Come on, come on,” he coaxed. He chafed her wrists, checked her arms and legs for further injury, patted her cheeks. “Wake up, Charlie. Come on.”

She gave a groan, eyelashes fluttering. Sam leaned over her, resting his bare palm on the side of her face, watching her slowly come back to the world.

“Charlie?”

The redhead blinked up at him, dazed. “Toto?”

Sam chuckled. “Afraid not.”

“Ooh,” Charlie groaned and let Sam help her sit up. “I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.”

“You hit your head pretty hard,” Sam explained. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He held up two fingers in front of her eyes, but Charlie was staring past his fingers into his face. “Charlie?”

“You're so pretty,” Charlie breathed.

Okay, wow. So she was a little punch-drunk. “I need you to focus, okay? You might have a concussion.”

“I mean you're not my type, but I just never noticed,” Charlie babbled. “Not even if you were a girl...maybe Cas, if he was smaller.”

“That's great,” Sam patted her hand. “Can you stand up.”

“But you have such nice hair,” she sighed. Sam stuck his hands under her arms and hoisted her to her feet. Charlie let out a cry of pain and Sam barely caught her as her knees buckled.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

“Your hair,” Charlie sobbed. “It's so beautiful.”

Well, this was getting out of hand. Sam was pretty sure Charlie hadn't just collapsed because he had _pretty hair_. “I'm gonna check your legs, okay?”

She nodded. Tears were streaming down her face now, probably a combination of pain and disorientation from the head injury. “Can I touch it?”

“What?”

“Your hair.”

Sam let out a sigh. They were never going to make any progress at this rate. He tugged his beanie off and bent down so that Charlie could gingerly run her fingers through it. “Happy?”

“It's just so pretty.”

“Yeah, thanks, Charlie,” Sam rolled his eyes. He decided to leave the beanie off, hoping his _exquisite_ hair would distract her. “I'm gonna check your ankles, okay?”

She nodded dreamily, but the instant he touched her right ankle Charlie flinched away from his touch. She rolled onto her side and heaved into the snow, bringing up mostly bile and the remains of the coffee they'd gotten at the ski lodge.

Sam gently rubbed her shoulders, making soothing noises. He hadn't gotten much of a look at it, but he was pretty sure her ankle was broken. Just a simple fracture, easy enough for Cas to fix when they rendezvoused, but he wasn't surprised Charlie had gotten sick now. “You okay?”

“Ooh, tell Glinda to let me off this crazy thing.”

“Yeah, I think it's broken. Give me a second, I'll see if I can splint it.” He didn't think it needed to be set, not with Cas less than two hours away (and a quick prayer to the angel let him know they were coming in wounded), but a splint would help cut down on the pain. “Looks like I get to carry you out of here,” he called over his shoulder. There were a number of branches lying around under the nearby trees, so it only took a few seconds to find two that would serve his purpose.

When he got back to Charlie's side she was staring up at him again, the same dazed, punch-drunk expression as before. Yep. Definitely a concussion. “Charlie?”

“It's your hair.”

Sam sighed. “I need to splint your ankle, okay?”

“Can I touch it?”

They were getting nowhere. “I'll let you touch it if you let me splint your ankle,” he offered. Charlie nodded, which was apparently a mistake as she turned a shade paler. Sam grinned down at her as he tugged his belt and scarf free. “This'll just take a second,” he promised.

He lay the sticks down on either side of her ankle and wrapped his belt and scarf around tightly, immobilizing the broken joint. It wasn't an ideal splint, but they didn't have far to go and he was a little more worried about Charlie sitting in the snow until Dean and Cas could find them.

“Okay, ready?”

“You promised,” Charlie warned. She already had a hand out. With a sigh, Sam lowered his head enough to let her stroke the loose ends of his hair. “It's just so pretty.”

“You already said that,” Sam reminded her. “Can I pick you up now?”

Charlie nodded. Sam gently scooped her up, bridal-style. She was so tiny in his arms, face pressed to his shoulder, eyes fixed adoringly on his hair.

“Can I-”

“You can touch it,” Sam interrupted. They had at least a mile to go, through snow drifts up to Sam's knees. He started off, making for the tree line where the path was a little clearer. Snowmobile tracks had at least packed down some of the drifts so he wasn't wading through the entire way.

“It's so pretty.”

“I am never letting you forget this,” he commented. Charlie would be mortified once she came to her senses...about time he had something to tease her about. Although, of all the reactions to head wounds she could have had, at least she was just loopy. He'd known people who were sick to their stomachs for days, or cried uncontrollably even when they were otherwise all right. He'd take the constant compliments to his hair.

* * *

“Sammy!”

“Oh, thank god,” Sam muttered. It had been a long, grueling hour hiking down the mountain. As tiny as Charlie was, his arms were starting to burn from the effort of carrying her. Then there was the constant, one-sided discussion of his hair until Sam was actually considering cutting it just so this could never happen again.

But now, finally, there were Dean and Cas, running up the slope to meet them.

“What happened? You guys okay?” Dean demanded. “Cas told me Charlie got hurt?”

“Broken ankle, and I think maybe a concussion,” Sam answered. Charlie had, at least, stopped talking about how pretty his hair was now that there were other people around.

Cas gently rested two fingers on Charlie's forehead. There was a brief, golden glow, then the lines of pain around her eyes smoothed back down and Sam felt the tension in her body relax completely. The angel's smile was warm as he helped Sam ease Charlie up to her feet. “Better?”

Charlie nodded gratefully, wrapping her arms around Cas. “Thanks, Castiel.”

He looked startled at the overt display of affection—and Sam was pretty sure that Dean was putting Charlie up to it. She'd been hugging the angel every chance she got. Though that might have been Charlie's attempt to correct a 'criminal lack of affection', as she'd called it.

“We got him, though,” Charlie announced cheerfully, pulling away from Cas to look up at Sam. Her face went blank for a second, then contorted with horror and she stepped back, hands over her face. “Oh, god, someone let me die!”

Sam let out a deep laugh at that, running to catch up with Charlie as she spun around to head back toward the ski lodge. “Hey, Charlie? Can I touch _your_ hair now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Freckles 'verse Charlie survived the Steins, introduced Jack to Moondoor, and taught Castiel to hug through sheer volume of hugs. She's currently so disappointed in Chuck that she's distributing the Supernatural books for free and encouraging all the most absurd fan theories just to infuriate him a little more.


	21. I Don't Feel So Well (Chronic Pain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angels sacrifice Castiel’s grace to empower one of their own, leaving Castiel scarred, frail...and human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :Little more hurt/comfort than whump, I guess. Just haven't been at a safe mental place to do really heavy-duty stuff, but that's okay.
> 
> This one is based off an idea I have for another fic, so yes, you might find out more about what happened later. I have a couple other things ahead of that, though, so please enjoy this snippet!

“ _How's Cas doing?_ ”

Dean grimaced and kicked the fridge shut, one arm full of sandwich ingredients and the other holding his phone to his ear. “Ate something last night, but I'm not sure he slept. Not long at least. Heard him thrashing around most of the night.”

Sam's heavy sighed filtered in through the phone's speaker. “ _We hit a dead-end with that Sergei guy. Anyone else you can think of?_ ”

“Maybe a reaper? Billie probably wouldn't help, but someone else might.”

“ _We'll work on that when we get back. Need anything?_ ”

Dean hesitated. There was a lot he needed. Cas's grace back, for starters. The bastard angels that did this to him would be good, too. “He, uh, he liked those muffins. The cheesecake ones.”

“ _We'll make a grocery run. Call if you need anything._ ”

“Thanks, Sammy.” The call ended and Dean stared down at his phone for a second before stuffing it in his pocket. When they'd heard that heaven was able to power up one of their angels to a higher level, like a demi-archangel, Sam and Dean had thought that was good news. Archangels could make more little baby halos, after all, which meant more power for heaven. They hadn't realized, however, that this could only happen by sacrificing the grace of another angel.

And of course they'd picked Cas for this. Naomi and her entourage hadn't seen fit to choose a volunteer, or even draw names out of a hat. They'd snatched Cas up, cut sigils into his back, and burned his grace right out of his body just to elevate Naomi to Super Bitch. They'd just dumped him—human, scarred, and frail—a few miles away from the old gate to Heaven. If one of the angels hadn't had a crisis of conscience (or whatever) and called the Winchesters then it was likely Cas would have died of exposure.

There was no getting his grace back, that was for sure. Sam and Eileen were out tracking down anyone who might help heal the damage the ritual had wrought on Cas's body, while Dean stayed behind to look after him. Jack was in one of the other realities trying to restore balance after Chuck's temper tantrum, so they couldn't reach him just yet. Man, he hoped the kid tore Super Bitch in half for this.

Dean quickly assembled two sandwiches—BLT for him, PB&J for Cas—and made his way through the bunker to Cas's room. He knocked before entering, using his hip to nudge the door open enough to step inside. “Cas?”

The blankets on the bed rustled, and Dean thought he heard a muffled reply. He set the sandwich plates on top of the dresser and walked over to crouch next to the bed, smoothing the blankets away enough to see the man beneath them. “Doing okay, man?”

Cas stared at him blearily. “Dean?”

Dean gently ran one hand over the lump of blankets that covered Cas's arm. “Warm enough?”

“Mmm...enough.”

That was good. Cas got cold so easily now. They didn't know if it was the trauma of losing his grace or some other internal damage from the ritual, but it was awful. “Brought you a sandwich?” Dean offered. “PB&J?”

Cas blinked up at him. “I could eat?” he said, as though it was a question instead of a statement. Dean let out a soft laugh and slid one arm behind Cas's shoulders, gently easing the other man up to sit against the headboard.

He spent a few more seconds fussing with the blankets to make sure Cas wouldn't get too cold then brought the sandwich over to him. He might have gone a little overboard with the sandwich—cutting the crusts off and dividing the sandwich into eighths to make smaller pieces—but he couldn't help it. “Thought I might make some soup later,” he said casually.

That earned him a grimace. “I may not be up for more than one meal a day yet, Dean.”

“Hey, hey, yeah. Take your time.” Dean rested one hand on Cas's back, rubbing in small circles to avoid the scars left from the sigils. “So, Sam and Eileen couldn't find Sergei, but we're still looking for something else.”

Cas let out a sigh and stared down at the plate in his lap. He'd managed to eat three of the sandwich triangles so far, which was more than last night so that was good. “There may not be a cure for my condition.”

They knew that. No one in the history of creation had suffered through what had been inflicted on Cas. They didn't even really know where to start looking “But maybe we can find something to help,” Dean replied. He picked up his own sandwich and took a bite, and after a moment Cas went for another triangle of PB&J.

“So. How are you feeling today?” Dean asked after Cas managed to eat a bite of his fifth sandwich triangle but set it back down on the plate unfinished. Just over half a sandwich, that was actually pretty good all things considered.

Cas didn't reply right away, but he held his hands up to stare at them. There was the slightest tremor in his fingers, and Dean saw the flash of irritation on his friend's face before Cas balled his hands into fists and let them rest in his lap. “The same.”

Dean winced. In addition to the chills and appetite problems, Cas was afflicted with some kind of chronic pain. On a good day, and if he was warm enough, he could shuffle around the bunker unaided. Good days were few and far between, and Cas usually needed help even walking a few steps. “It'll get better, man.”

“And what if I don't?” In a flash of temper, Cas swept the plate off of his lap and scattered the remains of the sandwich. “What if this is the rest of my life? What if I'm stuck as a...as a...”

“As one of us,” Dean interrupted, catching his friend's waving hand. “Hey, hey, come on. Look at me, man.”

Cas turned to glare at him, anger and despair fighting in his eyes. Dean held his gaze, waiting until the fury dissipated and Cas's face crumpled, then he scooted up on the edge of the bed to wrap his arms around the former angel and let him cry into his shoulder.

“Whatever happens,” he promised. “You'll always belong here, man. Cursed or not, angel or man...you're a Winchester, Cas. You're one of us.”

Cas's fist twisted weakly in Dean's shirt. “It hurts,” he whispered.

“I know, man,” Dean rested one hand on the back of Cas's head, pulling him in closer. “I know.”

* * *

Bags in each hand, Eileen jerked her head toward the kitchen to indicate she was going to put the groceries away. Sam nodded and headed down further into the bunker to look for Dean and Cas.

He had the package of muffins and a can of pre-made protein shake in his hands—the shake had been Eileen's idea. If Cas wasn't up for eating much, maybe they could get him to drink the shakes at least, to get more nutrients into his system. The bedrooms were empty, but Sam easily tracked the sound of old Westerns to the “Dean Cave”.

“ _Tombstone_ again, Dean?” he complained as he entered the room.

Dean had traded out the recliners for a u-shaped couch, and he was occupying one leg of the U, bowl of popcorn in his lap and bottle of beer on the floor beside him. “Cas's favorite, Sammy.”

Sam looked at Cas, who was on the other leg and wrapped in several layers of blankets. “I said it was the least offensive,” he replied, staring at Sam with a resigned expression.

“Which means favorite,” Dean countered. “Have a good trip?”

“Eileen found stuff for homemade mac and cheese,” Sam offered. He settled on the arm of the couch near Cas, holding out the muffins and shake like an offering. “She wants to make a couple pans of it to keep in the freezer for easy meals, if we like it.”

If Cas liked it, that is. Eileen had more experience with picky eaters than Sam (she'd spent eight months as a nanny to try to teach a developing telekinetic how to control her powers), so she'd come up with the idea to make extra servings of the things Cas liked so they'd be on-hand when he wanted something.

“Dude. Marry her.”

Sam laughed. “I think we're both technically dead, Dean.”

“That's just an excuse,” Dean retorted as he popped another handful of popcorn in his mouth. “Still good, Cas?”

Cas had set the food down on the floor and curled back into his pile of blankets. He tried to answer Dean but nothing but a whimper came out.

“Aw, damn,” Dean swore, pausing the movie and rolling to his feet. Sam was already leaning over the side of the couch, a supportive hand on Cas's arm. “Hate when it hits out of the blue like this.”

“Has anything helped?” Sam asked as Dean knelt beside Cas and slid an arm under his shoulders. Not holding him up, just offering his support.

“If he keeps warm,” Dean replied. “Cold seems to make it worse.”

Sam nodded, though no one was looking at him, wincing in sympathy when Cas shuddered beneath his hand. Cas's symptoms reminded him a little of fibromyalgia, except the flares of pain were relatively short despite their intensity. Painkillers didn't help, at least not in safe doses. It was like the ritual had torn Cas's body apart from the inside, but left him with his angelic tolerance for human medicine.

Cas's shudders finally slowed, and he let out a piteous moan and buried his face in Dean's shoulder. The older Winchester's face was pinched in sympathy, one hand stroking the former angel's dark hair. That was how these flare-ups always went—first the tight, intense pain that had Cas curling into a ball unable to make a sound (he'd once said it was like every joint was locking together, pulling his body into itself), followed by a deep ache that left him restless and miserable.

“Wanna go back to bed, buddy?” Dean asked softly. Cas nodded pathetically, still burrowed into Dean's shoulder as though the hunter could soothe away the pain. “Sam?”

“Heating pads,” Sam agreed. “We found an electric radiator, too, I'll bring that down when I get a second.” He gave Cas's shoulder another gentle squeeze before hurrying off to make sure the heating pads were turned on and in the proper places. He pulled the blankets back and straightened them, knowing Cas would probably twist around until he looked like a celestial burrito, then picked up the bits of sandwich that Dean had obviously forgotten to clean up.

Dean entered the room a few moments later, carrying Cas bridal-style in his arms, blankets and all. Sam felt his heart twist in sympathy—after so many years of Castiel just brushing off almost anything, it was hard to see him looking so small and frail in Dean's arms.

“Here we go, Cas,” Dean murmured as he gently lowered Cas down to the bed. It took a moment before the former angel released his death-grip on the front of Dean's shirt, but when he finally did Sam pulled the blankets up over his shoulders.

Cas curled up under the blankets, twisting to bury his face in the pillow. Dean settled down in the chair next to the bed and gently ran his hand up and down over Cas's blanket-covered back. “It's gonna be okay, man. We'll get through this.”

“I'll get the radiator,” Sam offered quietly, slipping out of the room before his brother could reply. It was time to redouble his efforts to find a solution for this.

Even if he had to tear Heaven down to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, reviews feed the muse, which fuels my whump generator (that and Reese's cups)! Anyway, can you believe there are only ten days left?


	22. Do These Tacos Taste Funny to You? (Poisoned)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a visit to a food festival, Sam is stricken by a mysterious ailment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for gross content. I tried to keep it as non-graphic as possible, but Sam gets pretty sick in this one.

Sam thanked the cashier as she handed him his salad, poking a couple of bills into the tip jar with his free hand. He and Dean were investigating some weird omens near a college in New Hampshire, and as it turned out the college's international student union was having a food festival to raise money for their event budget.

He took a seat at an empty table and popped open the salad container to admire the brightly-colored vegetables for a moment. They were obviously farm-fresh, not from the produce section at the supermarket. The dressing was a homemade vinaigrette, too, and there was even a little box of croutons made from toasted rye bread.

“This place is awesome,” Dean announced as he settled into the seat across from Sam.

Sam wrinkled his nose at his brother's selections. “Really, Dean?”

Dean paused, taco halfway to his mouth. “What?” He had, predictably, gone for the greasiest and least-healthy options. Sam could see a plate of three more street tacos loaded up with greasy steak and sour cream, a basket of fried cheese curds, another basket of bite-sized spring rolls, and a cup of espresso.

“I can hear your arteries hardening,” Sam complained as he prepared his salad. “You should really watch what you eat.”

“Spring rolls have cabbage,” Dean retorted around a mouthful of taco. “That's a vegetable.”

“Yeah, a fried vegetable.” Honestly, why was he even trying? Cas must be somehow scrubbing his brother's arteries out when no one was looking, that was the only way Dean could have lasted so long without some kind of heart trouble. He speared some spinach and a sliver of red bell pepper and chewed it while considering his case notes.

“Got anything?” Dean asked. He was shoveling fried cheese curds in his mouth now. Sam tried not to watch.

“Couple of unexplained deaths,” Sam shook his head. “Not much here to go on. Might just be a residual haunting, not something intelligent.”

Dean nodded. “Might need to look into this a little further. Might need a couple days here.”

Sam rolled his eyes as he scooped up the last forkful of salad. “We're not hanging around just so you can give yourself heart disease.”

“What? I'm perfectly healthy!” Dean punctuated his words with an expressive, disgusting belch. “So, where to next?”

* * *

Luckily, the collage had local history dating back to the town's founding in its archive. He tore off half his list and passed it off to Dean, ignoring his brother's griping about not having a computer to go through.

The town's newspapers were in thick, heavy binders that sent up a cloud of dust when Sam dropped one on the table. He waved away the dust with one hand, the other hand creeping toward his stomach to press against the discomfort there. Sometimes watching Dean eat was enough to gross even Sam out, despite the gruesome horrors of their everyday lives.

He flipped through the pages and noted down anything that might need further research, nearly doubling over from the sudden, sharp pains in his stomach. Maybe the dressing hadn't agreed with him—there had been some unusual spices in it.

“I got nothing,” Dean announced, dropping two more of the heavy binders next to Sam's. “You sure we should be looking here? This place doesn't exactly have a long history of ghost activity.

Sam's stomach churned and he swallowed hard. “It could be something recent stirred up a spirit that was mostly at rest.”

“Yeah, well, doesn't seem like it.” Dean sat down in a chair a few spaces down the table from Sam and swiveled around to prop his feet up on the table. “Hey, let's hit that festival again. I think the taco cart was gonna make churros this afternoon.”

Sam clamped a hand over his mouth and lurched for the nearby trashcan, barely making it before he began to retch. Stomach cramping, arms quivering, he crumpled to his knees and hung over the plastic receptacle as his body tried to wring itself inside-out.

He started when someone touched him on the back, then realized it was just Dean resting a hand on his shoulder. Sam tried to say something, maybe tell his brother to stand clear, but he couldn't turn away from the trashcan long enough to get a single word out.

“What's gotten into you, Sammy?” Dean murmured, rubbing across Sam's shoulders. It was such a familiar gesture, from a time when stomach bugs were still scarier than monsters and Dad was never home to hold his hair back (metaphorically). “Well...or what's _coming out_ of you.”

Sam let out a groan of dismay that quickly turned into another retch. He kept his eyes squeezed shut to avoid the sight of the mess in the can, but the smell hit his nose and he was retching again.

Dean moved away from him, but before Sam could protest his brother's absence the older Winchester was back to swap out the trashcan in front of Sam with an empty one. “Can you hang on while I dump this and pull the car around?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Getting the dirty trashcan out of the way was a big help, but he could still feel his stomach rolling and cramping. He hadn't felt this sick in a long time. This was worse than any hangover nausea; it felt like it whatever part of his body wasn't queasy was burning up.

It felt like hours, but Dean was finally back with a bottle of cold water. “Rinse and spit,” he commanded. Sam tried to obey but that triggered another gag, even though he only had bile left to bring up. “Can you walk?”

Sam nodded, though he wasn't really sure about that. To his relief Dean did most of the work hauling him up to his feet, then pressing the trashcan back into his hands. Walking was horrible. The world tilted and spun around him, and if Dean hadn't had a hold of his arms Sam might have pitched over and lain forever in a pile of his own fluids.

He almost laughed when they got to the car. Dean had dug out a canvas drop cloth to cover the seat in case Sam was sick again, though when his stomach jumped and spun as he sat down it didn't seem like such a ridiculous idea. Sam let out a long, pitiful moan and rested the trashcan on his knees, bending over so his face nearly disappeared into it.

“Not long now, kiddo,” Dean said. His hand was back on Sam's shoulder, rubbing back and forth with a soothing rhythm.

“'M almost forty,” Sam tried to protest.

“Yeah, well, you'll always be a skinny little nerd to me,” Dean teased, ruffling Sam's hair. “You know, if you puked in your hair we have to shave it all off.”

Sam let out another groan at the p-word and curled even tighter over the trashcan. He didn't have the energy to snark back or even give his brother a rude gesture, but he was sure he could save it up for later. When Dean eventually caught the stomach bug, for instance. Revenge would be sweet.

They reached the hotel without much incident, though Sam's stomach had protested a few of the sharper turns. He kept his head over the can long after they'd stopped, not wanting to risk walking the few short feet into their room.

“Come on, Sammy, up you go.”

But Dean was there. Horrible, awful, drill sergeant Dean. He was pitiless as he hauled Sam's dying body out of the passenger seat of the Impala and forced him to walk five or six yards into the comfort of their hotel room.

“Dude, come on,” Dean laughed. “You'll feel better in a real bed, I promise.”

He was probably lying, but Sam had no choice but to follow blindly. The world had narrowed down to the pain in his stomach and the heat in his body as Dean steered him the vast distance from the door of the hotel room to the nearest bed.

Sam flung an arm across his eyes and moaned as Dean fussed around tugging off his boots and loosening his belt. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Dean's voice was gentle as he patted Sam on the knee. “I think you're running a fever, too. Lemme get you more water.”

Sam tried another groan, but his brother was persistent. Another bottle of water was placed on the nightstand next to his head, with strict instructions to try to drink a few sips now and then to keep his body hydrated. Then, wonder of wonders, Dean placed a cool, damp towel across Sam's forehead.

He was wrong. Dean wasn't a drill sergeant...he was an angel.

“Okay, kiddo, sure,” Dean was laughing again. “Just get some rest.”

* * *

The light in the room was too bright. Sam groaned and flung his arm over his eyes again, the towel that had been on his forehead sliding to the ground.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean called out. Far too cheerfully for someone who'd spent the night in the same room as a guy puking his guts up.

“Just remember you're next,” Sam retorted, waving a hand threatening in his brother's direction. That was one thing about living in such close quarters—what goes around always comes around.

“No, I don't think I am.” Dean sounded positively gleeful this morning.

Sam risked moving his arm to glare up at his brother. “Something you feel like sharing?”

“Just a little piece of news this morning,” Dean waved his phone in Sam's direction. “Seems there were quite a few people hospitalized last night.”

He nearly sat up, but his stomach cramped painfully when he tried so he sank back down in the bed. “What happened?”

“Near as they can tell they all attended the food festival yesterday,” Dean explained. Well, yeah, obviously. That was probably the biggest event in town right now. “More importantly, they all had salads with this delightful vinaigrette dressing.”

The mention of food made Sam groan again and he draped his arm over his eyes. “Don't tell me...”

“Looks like a case of good old food poisoning, Sammy. Guess the tacos were the best choice after all.”

Sam fumbled for the second pillow on his bed and chucked it in the direction of his brother's voice. Dammit. He was never going to live this one down.


	23. What's a Sheriff Gotta Do to Get Some Sleep Around Here? (Sleep Deprivation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exhausted Jody takes a break in the middle of a tough case

Jody swung the door of her squad car shut and just leaned against the roof of the car for a few seconds. This case was starting to take its toll on her—four hikers missing in three weeks, plus any number of homeless or unreported abductions. It looked like a human thing, but Claire was taking Patience and Kaia out to check on the supernatural angle (and, really, Jody was happy the three of them were moving together. The missing people had all been snatched one by one).

She had a full four hours before she had to be downtown to meet with the deputy mayor, then it was back to the station to comb through witness reports again. Jody couldn't remember the last time she'd done more than catch a quick nap at her desk. If she weren't the sheriff she'd order herself home for a good night's sleep, but with everything going on she just had time for a meal, a shower, and maybe an hour of shut-eye before she had to be back in the middle of things.

The house smelled of tomato soup when she entered it, and Alex stuck her head out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand. “Just in time! I'm making grilled cheese to go with the soup, you want some?”

Jody gave an exhausted nod, not quite able to make a verbal reply. Coffee, that was what she forgot. Lots and lots of coffee.

She opted for a stool at the kitchen island instead of sitting at the table, rationalizing that the more uncomfortable seat would help her stay awake. “How are things here?” Jody managed to ask, chin propped up on one hand.

“I told you, we've got this,” Alex replied. Her dark hair was twisted up into a bun, and though she'd grown into a wonderful young woman Jody couldn't help but picture the rebellious girl who'd brought something in Jody's heart back to life. “The girls are making a grocery run once they're done at the cemetery, we'll bring sandwiches and snacks by the station later tonight, and you've got a clean uniform on your bed for later today.”

Jody smiled. “Have I told you girls how wonderful you are?”

“You might have mentioned it,” Alex teased over one shoulder as she stirred the soup. “ _Now, do you really need to buy this much cheese?”_

_The conveyor belt at the supermarket was full, piled high with blocks of cheese in plain paper wrappers. Jody stared down the length of the belt, then up at Alex, who was staring at her impatiently with her arms folded. “Cheese?”_

_Alex was young again, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a torn flannel shirt under a green-and-white striped apron. “It's just cheese, Jody. Why is this so difficult?”_

_There was a list in Jody's hand. She stared down at it, just seeing the word 'cheese' written over and over. Did she need that much cheese? When did she get to the store?_

“Jody!”

She snapped awake, blinking up at Alex's worried face. “I'm okay.”

The younger woman wasn't deterred. “When's the last time you slept?”

Jody shook her head and peeked down at her watch. “Just now?”

Alex huffed impatiently. “I mean before this?”

She waved one hand. “I'm okay, really. What were you saying?”

Dark eyes scrutinized her for a moment, then Alex relented a little. “I asked what kind of cheese you wanted.”

Jody let out a sigh and rested her head on her hand again. “We got cheddar?”

That earned her a snort of laughter. “We got everything. Claire and Kaia went a little wild.”

_Alex turned back around, a machete in one hand. “Kaia's talking about taking aptitude exams, maybe getting some night classes to catch up. That might actually make Claire care about her education again.”_

_She paused in her conversation to lop the head off the zombie that had strolled up behind her. That was funny. When had zombies invaded Jody's kitchen?_

“ _I mean, Patience and I nag her for years, and all Kaia has to do is bat her eyelashes and Claire's calling home more often and talking about online college options,” Alex complained, easily kicking another zombie in the chest before twirling to hack another one to pieces. She caught an arm off of this one and thunked it down on the counter right across from Jody, and began cutting slices off of it as easily as if she were cutting a block of cheese._

“Hey, wake up.”

Jody blinked and her kitchen was back to normal, except for Alex leaning across the counter with a hand on the older woman's arm. “I'm okay,” she answered.

Alex was frowning. Too late, Jody realized there hadn't actually been a question yet. “All right, come on.”

With little effort, Alex steered Jody over to the couch in the next room and pushed her down, propping Jody's feet up on one arm of the couch and tugging a blanket over her. “Now. Sleep.”

Jody groaned and started to sit up. “I've got too much-”

“Now.” Alex's arms were folded, and for some reason that made her look too intimidating to argue with. “Deputy Mayor Johnson called right before you got home, he asked if you could video conference with him instead of meeting in person. I was gonna tell you once lunch is ready, but since you keep falling asleep on me I'll tell you now. So you have four hours to sleep and get something to eat, then another two before you need to leave for the station. I'm expecting you to spend most of that time sleeping.”

“Kiddo,” Jody tried to argue.

Alex held a hand up. “Don't even, Jody. You know I'll call Sheriff Halston over in Turner county if I have to.”

Jody grumbled but lowered herself back onto the couch. Halston was all right—a little wet behind the ears, and a lot of obnoxious, but he really did care about the job. And the last time he'd been around he'd been a little too interested in Alex, which showed how serious the younger woman was taking this.

“Thank you,” Alex said, her shoulders relaxing a little. “I'll get you in an hour for some soup, okay?”

She nodded, already letting her eyes close again.

“ _That's perfect,” Alex said, smiling warmly. She tucked the blanket under Jody's chin and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Love you, Mom.”_

Jody snapped awake. “Alex?”

Alex stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Yeah, Jody?”

“Did...did you just call me Mom?”

The younger woman frowned and shook her head. “Maybe you were asleep again?”

Jody let out a sigh and draped one arm across her eyes. “Yeah...must be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! A few years ago I developed serious sleep apnea that meant I was basically getting less than an hour of sleep every night. I actually had moments like this where I would drop into a dream state in the middle of a conversation. The worst happened when I was driving and actually went off the road (damaged a fence but no people, so I was incredibly lucky).
> 
> I use a CPAP machine now, so those days are long behind me


	24. You're Not Making Any Sense (Forced Mutism)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Direct sequel to chapter eight) Cas's encounter with the gallu demon has left a lot of wounds to be healed...and a lot of questions to be answered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No spoilers for the eventual main story (Working title: Between the Dragon and His Wrath). Poor Cas, why do I keep blinding him?

Sam tried to stay quiet as he pushed the door open to their hotel room. He'd finally found the right kind of tea, as well as some herbs they hadn't had on-hand in the Impala. He nodded in greeting to Dean, who looked up from the old sci-fi paperback he'd been reading. “How is he?”

Dean's hand dropped down to his side, where a patch of dark hair was all that could be seen of the third person in the room. “Think he's asleep.”

That was good. Sam tried to smile, but his face wouldn't quite cooperate, and hurried to unload the paper back from the Korean grocery store. Castiel had been captured tortured for days—possibly weeks—by a demon they'd never seen before. When the brothers had finally killed the demon and rescued their friend they'd found Cas bloodied and torn, his eyes swollen shut with infection and his larynx crushed.

“I'll mix up the tea, then do you want me to take a shift with him?” Sam asked. Cas had been...well, the only real word for it was clingy...ever since his rescue. He was effectively blind until they could draw out the infection in his eyes and unable to speak until his throat healed, and he seemed to be coping by wrapping himself around whatever brother was closest.

“I'm good for a little bit,” Dean replied, stretching his arms up over his head. “Long enough if you want to get a shower or something.”

Sam nodded and turned back to assemble the ingredients for the tea. Really, there wasn't much they could do for physical damage like that, but he hoped that something meant to accelerate healing would still work on an angel. And there was a purifying effect to some of the herbs, too, which could help Cas's body fight out the demon's venom.

“Still don't know what kind of demon is venomous,” Sam said over his shoulder.

“Well, he can tell us when he can talk again,” Dean said. “Hey, bring that ointment, too, I think his eyes are oozing.”

“Gross, Dean.” Sam's complaint was halfhearted, and he brought over the little bowl of myrrh, hyssop, and holy water he'd mixed together earlier. It wasn't nearly as mystical as it sounded—he'd taken the most traditional, most celestial-sounding purifying ingredients he could think of, then squeezed in most of a tube of antibiotic ointment and some aloe vera for good measure.

Dean had finally coaxed Cas upright, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to keep him grounded. “We're just gonna change the goop on your eyes, okay? You know it helped last time.”

Sam raised his eyebrows when Cas nodded. “It helped?”

“He said it helped the pain.”

Oh. man, Sam hadn't even thought about Cas still being in pain. “Wait, he said?”

Dean shot him a patronizing look. “We played twenty questions. One tap for yes, two for no, that sort of thing.”

That was...actually a little brilliant. Sam knew Cas would still be able to communicate by writing, though he might not be up for that until he could see again, but he'd never thought of just asking yes or no questions. “Is it okay if I touch your face?”

Cas tapped on Dean's leg once. “That means yes,” Dean offered helpfully. Sam rolled his eyes.

“I'm cutting the bandages away, okay?”

One tap.

Sam carefully cut through the bandage wrapped around Cas's face and pulled it away. The smell was terrible. Like iron and rot and sulfur. Sam fought down a gag, and when he looked over Dean was clenching his jaw as though to keep himself from getting sick. “I need to clean some of this...this goop off of your eyes, Cas. Are you ready?”

One tap.

He dipped a piece of gauze in the healing ointment and gently wiped it across the ruined mess of Cas's eyes. He actually had to use three or four pieces to clear away the discharge that had built up, and when he finally reached the raw, inflamed skin beneath Sam thought it might look a little better. Less red, maybe, and there was some spastic movement like Cas was trying to open his eyes. “Cas? Can you move your eyes at all?”

Two taps. Sam let out a sigh.

“I'm going to bandage you up now, then I made some tea for you.”

Two taps.

Dean sighed this time and tightened his hold on Cas's shoulders. “He thinks drinking something will hurt,” he explained. “I got the feeling just breathing is kinda bad right now.”

One tap.

Sam frowned. “Maybe try it? If it hurts too much we can save it for later.”

Cas lowered his head, then turned into Dean to bury his face in the older hunter's shoulder. Dean made a face—Cas's eyes hadn't been re-bandaged, so any further discharge from the infection was getting smeared into his clothes. “Come on, man, at least let us treat your eyes.”

Two taps.

Dean sighed, tucking Cas in a little closer. “We won't make you do anything you don't want to do,” he said, his voice calm and gentle. “You know Sam's holy eye paste made you feel better before, right?”

Cas's hand balled into a fist and he tucked it in between himself and Dean. Not talking anymore.

“No tea,” Sam interjected. “I promise, Cas, no tea unless you want it. But you have to let us treat your eyes. You don't even have to let go of Dean for that, okay?”

They were all quiet for a moment. Sam rested one hand on Cas's blanket-covered knee, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth in what he hoped was a soothing motion. Dean adjusted his grip around Cas's shoulders, pulling him in as close as he could. Cas huddled into Dean, body rigid, seemingly unaware of his surroundings.

Then the angel's shoulders slumped. He slowly pulled his hand out from between his and Dean's bodies and tapped Dean on the leg once.

Sam let out a sigh of relief. At least Cas was willing to accept something to make him more comfortable. “Just lean toward me, all right, Cas?”

It was a little easier than the first time. Whether that was because Cas was regaining some of his strength or the little amount of control they'd given him, Sam didn't know. He gently applied the ointment to his friend's swollen eyes and wrapped clean gauze around his head. “How's that?”

Dean let out a dramatic sigh. “Yes or no questions, Sammy.”

Sam huffed out his annoyance, and regretted it when Cas flinched away from him. “Sorry, sorry, not you, Cas. Is, uh, is this all right?”

But Cas had retreated again, face buried against Dean's shoulder. Dean was shooting Sam a look that could peel paint, so Sam just held his hands up and backed away. “I'm gonna grab a shower, then I'll see if I can find anything about that demon.”

The older Winchester gave a loud, theatrical yawn. “Man, I think I need my beauty sleep. The other bed is all the way over there, guess I'll just crash right here.” Sam felt his mouth twist up in a smile. He wasn't so sure Cas needed his feelings spared like this, it was obvious the angel was desperate enough for physical touch that he needed someone next to him in the bed.

“G-”

“What was that?” Sam looked up from digging through his bag for his toiletries. It had sounded somewhere between part of a word and a cough.

“G-”

“Cas?” Dean was trying to pry Cas away from him enough to see his face. “Cas, is that you?”

Cas swallowed, face contorted in pain. “G-”

“Hey, hey, hey, no talking,” Sam dropped his bag and rushed over to Cas's side, resting one hand on his shoulder. God, it sounded like Cas's throat was full of glass. “What is it?”

Cas made a sound in his throat—or tried to—and one hand flew up to cradle his neck. “G-...Ga-...”

“Jeez, man, it's okay,” Dean tried to pull Cas's hand away from his neck. “Whatever it is, we'll figure it out when you're better, okay?”

The angel tried to pull away, but Dean's grip was too strong. Cas furrowed his brow and grit his teeth and tried again. “G-...Ga-...l-...lu.” He doubled over, coughing so hard tears streamed down his face from under his bandaged eyes and blood splattered on the hotel's bedspread.

Sam rocked back on his heels, trying to assemble the disjointed sounds in his head. Whatever Cas had been trying to say, it had to be connected to what they were talking about. Sam had talked about getting a shower, then Dean had talked about sleeping.

And the demon. Sam had talked about researching the demon. “Cas, is it about the demon?”

Cas nodded, gratefully. “G-...”

“No, no more,” Dean's voice was stern and he twisted around enough to rest both hands on Cas's shoulders. “We'll figure this out.”

“Gal...gallu? Cas, were you saying gallu?”

The angel nodded, sagging gratefully against Dean. “What? What is that?”

“It's a type of demon popular in ancient myths,” Sam explained. He opened his computer and typed the word into the online search engine. “Ah, here it is. In Babylonian text the gallu are specialized demons that track down the souls of those who have escaped the underworld. Look familiar?” He spun the computer around, showing Dean the picture of a tall, broad-shouldered monstrosity that closely resembled the one that had been holding Cas prisoner.

Dean whistled. “Good job, man,” he said, wrapping his arm around Cas's shoulder to hug him close. The angel seemed exhausted, barely lifting his head to acknowledge Dean's praise. “So, we got a name to go with fugly. Any idea who summoned him? And why?”

“No, but it's a start,” Sam replied. “Thanks, Cas. That's a big help.”

One step closer in catching the bastard behind all of this.


	25. I Think I'll Just Collapse Right Here, Thanks (Ringing Ears)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is attacked on a routine ghost hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one fits best in the early seasons, but I kept it purposely vague so you can pretty much set it any time.

The lightbulb above then popped with an ear-splitting shriek. Sam ducked and covered one ear with his free hand. “Did you hear that?” he demanded.

Dean was leaning up to look at the empty light fixture. “Something big's moving. Come on, let's get this over with.”

“No, the...ah, the ringing,” Sam insisted. It was getting worse now, like a bell pealing in his head, but just as it was growing unbearable it started to fade back to nothing.

His brother shot him a deadpan look. “It's just altitude sickness, Gigantor. Atmosphere's probably a little thin up there.”

“Real mature, Dean.” Sam shook his head, dispelling the last of the ringing. “Activity is concentrated in the parlor.”

“Of course it is,” Dean griped. “Who even has a parlor anymore? People who collect doilies and teacups, that's who.”

“It's just the name of the style of room.”

“Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,” Dean wheezed out in a sing-song voice, spinning around to put his flashlight under his chin so that his face was cast into shadow.

Sam just stared flatly at him. “Yeah. Sure. Let's get this over with.”

Dean lowered the flashlight and turned back around. “Buzzkill.”

With a sigh, Sam kept following his brother through the dark, narrow hall to the old parlor. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy taking on little cases like this here and there, they'd just been so busy and it felt like it had been years since he'd had a good night's sleep. This would be simple. Get the teapot that belonged to the old maiden great-aunt, smash it on a cloth with a pentagram drawn onto it, and performing a smudging ritual to cleanse the room. Just because it was an easy job didn't mean it was time for a vacation.

Another bulb popped overhead with the same ear-piercing tone. Sam flinched away again, both hands going to his ears. It was even louder this time, no way Dean was this dense.

“Dude, come on,” Dean shook his head, grabbing Sam by one arm. “It's just a freaking light bulb. It's not going to hurt you. Let's gank this... _tea kettle_...and hit the bar.”

Sam tried to nod, but the ringing was almost unbearable. It seemed like it was in his head, all around him, but it still started to fade after a few seconds. “Right,” he answered, a little breathlessly.

Dean was already on the move. “Just one lousy...son of a bitch.”

The parlor was full of teapots. Wall to wall on built-in bookcases, little ceramic teapots in different styles and finishes. “We have to find the one that belonged to Mavis Carson,” Sam said, raising his voice over the rising noise.

“Yeah, I know, stop shouting,” Dean retorted. He seemed unaffected by the noise and simply started peering into teapots. “Think it's gonna have her name on it?”

Sam could barely hear his reply. The ringing in his ears was even worse, like someone was blowing across the spouts of every teapot in the room. He dropped his flashlight to cover both ears but that was no help.

“Sammy?” Dean's voice was distorted and muted, but he was in front of Sam now. “What's wrong?”

“You can't hear it?” Sam gasped. His knees buckled and he curled in on himself, trying to get away from the awful sound. “It won't stop!”

Dean said something else, but the ringing in Sam's ears was like a physical presence. He felt moisture on his upper lip and thought his nose might be bleeding, and when he tried to pry his eyes open they were flooded with tears. It was the sound. It was going to burst the blood vessels in his brain, leave him dead or paralyzed.

There was a sharp crash from somewhere in the room, and the ringing in Sam's ears turned into a shriek. He forced himself to look up, prying open his tortured eyes. Dean had a crowbar and was going nuts, just smashing every teapot on every shelf. Sam almost felt a pang of sympathy for their client, but the shrieks were getting louder and he was sure he felt his left eardrum burst.

Then there was nothing, just blessed silence, and Sam crumpled forward in relief.

“Sammy?” Dean's voice was still distorted, but that might just be the trauma in Sam's ears. “Come on, man, please don't be dead.”

Strong arms rolled him over and a rough, familiar hand patted his face. Sam managed to wave one arm around enough to grab Dean's and forced his eyes open to look up at his brother. “Ow.”

Dean sagged in relief. “Dude, I think your ear's bleeding.”

Sam flinched away when Dean tried to probe at it. “Did you get the teapot?”

The older Winchester left for a moment, returning with the broken handle of a ceramic teapot. “Exploded with green smoke the second the crowbar touched it, then you stopped seizing and collapsed. Guess this is Mavis's pride and joy.”

He scanned the parlor blearily. Dean hadn't had to smash all the teapots, just about half of them. At least they had that much. And it was better than the woman who owned the house now going through something like that. “Don't forget to smudge,” he gasped, digging through his pocket for the bundle of sage. “The-the cloth?”

Dean had laid out the pentagram cloth and smashed Mavis's teapot a few more times, grinding it into tiny pieces. “Come back from that, you ectoplasmic bitch,” he sneered. He accepted the bundle of sage from Sam and lit it with a quick flick from his lighter. “Still got time to make last call,” he announced as he began to circle the room clockwise to make sure the old woman's spirit was cleansed.

Sam let his head fall back to the floor with a groan. “No thanks. I think I've had enough excitement for one night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I was using the wrong tag on tumblr most of the month! No wonder I only got reblogged like twice!


	26. If You Thought the Head Trauma Was Bad... (Migraine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their father had always brushed it off as an infirmity, like Dean was suddenly too frail to handle life as a hunter just because he had a few “headaches”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! At least this time I only had to look up migraine auras and if morphine could be used to treat a migraine! Gave my FBI stalker a break after a month of googling things like sensory deprivation, chemical pneumonia, types of demons, etc.

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, rolling his head back and forth to try to loosen his shoulders. They'd been at this for hours now, and his body was protesting sitting still for so long. He tried to focus on the book in front of him, but the light seemed too low to actually see the words and too bright to concentrate on what he was reading.

The tap-tap-tap of Sam's fingers on the keys of his laptop was like a physical presence, burrowing into his skin to dig at his nerves. He needed a drink. Or ten. Or his darkest sunglasses and the thumping bass of Pearl Jam's greatest hits. Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose and tried to blink away the sparks of light in his vision, probably from staring at the tiny text on the page for too damn long.

“I think we can rule out a shade,” Sam's voice was jarring after the relative silence of the room. It wasn't as grating as the tap-tap-tap of the keys, but something about it almost made his skin crawl. “According to this they're solitary specters and are reluctant to show themselves to large groups, and this thing appeared to four or five kids at once.”

Dean grunted in reply, digging the heel of his hand into his eye. If everything could just focus just for a second, maybe he could find the lore they needed and get them the hell away from the books.

“Did you hear me?” Sam persisted. “Dude, what's up with you? You've been cranky all day and now you're ignoring me.”

“What?” he'd heard what Sam was saying, but for some reason the words just wouldn't line up in his mind. He should probably mouth off, come back with a snarky reply, but Sam's face was swimming in and out of focus. “I don't...”

“Oh my god, Dean, are you drunk?”

Dean tried to force his eyes to focus, but the light was suddenly reflecting off of Sam's face in sharp lines and the air around them seemed to shimmer. Like asphalt on a hot day—he could almost swear he could smell it, too, and that wasn't a pleasant thought. His stomach churned at the sensation.

“You are, aren't you? I can't believe you'd do this, Dean, we have a job to do...”

Sam was still talking, but Dean mulishly ignored the accusations. He didn't know what was happening but he certainly wasn't drunk, and Sam would know this if he'd been paying attention. They'd been stuck together since dawn, tracking down whatever nasty was terrorizing the local junior high. There hadn't been time to sneak off for one beer, let alone enough to get himself wasted.

Dean slammed his book shut, regretting instantly when the noise seemed to shoot right into his brain. The stiffness in his neck was spreading up now, starting as a dull ache at the base of his skull. “Not drunk,” he finally answered, unaware that Sam was just staring at him in shock. Dean pushed the book away and stood up, but the ground tilted beneath his feet. He took one shaking step away from the table before he collapsed to his knees, hands pressed to his head as the pain roared in to overtake his senses.

It was awful. The pain marched in tandem with his pulse, each beat piercing his brain through his temples. If he opened his eyes the world spun around him, but if he closed them the ground tilted and swayed. Someone was talking, but their voice was coming from a long way away, and possibly under water given the distortion.

Someone was touching him. Dean tried to fight off their hands as even the tiniest motion sent agony racing up and down his spine. He could hear his name, hands were on his face, and he forced himself to open his eyes enough to see Sammy staring at him with worried intensity.

He threw up. All over Sam. The bitch probably deserved it for...something.

The hands were back. Dean pushed at them but they were relentless, forcing him to his feet, guiding him somewhere. He might have thrown up again, or he might have just heaved emptily, either way the pain was wretched.

Then he was being lowered down onto something hard and cool. He tried to open his eyes and found darkness—not the total blackness of blindness or night, but the kind that came from drawing the curtains over the windows and turning all the lights out.

Water was running somewhere. It was loud, but it wasn't as bad as some of the sounds. Not the tap-tap-tap, or Sam's disappointed voice. Something cool and wet was placed against the back of his neck, and another was pressed to his forehead. It wasn't nearly enough to ease the pain, but he could almost forgive Sammy for all the bad things he'd said. It went without saying that it wasn't enough to make him sorry for puking all over his brother, though. A man had to have limits.

Sam was talking again, trying to keep his voice quiet, but it was still too loud and echoing. Dean flinched away from it and dislodged the towel from his forehead. He groped for it blindly, pitifully, until Sam found it and replaced it. Dean clumsily dragged the towel down until it was covering his eyes as well as his forehead, sighing at the minimal amount of relief that much more darkness gave.

A hand on his shoulder—Sam's, most likely, unless his brother was having company over right now—and he was alone. Alone with the pain in his head, throbbing along to the beat of his heart.

He'd had these before, though it had been years. Their father had always brushed it off as an infirmity, like Dean was suddenly too frail to handle life as a hunter just because he had a few “headaches”. He'd gotten good at recognizing the signs and pumping himself full of painkillers before they got too bad, but it had been so long this time he hadn't noticed until it was too late.

Sam was back again, his voice booming in Dean's head despite his attempts to be quiet. Then the kid was tugging on his shirt, pulling his sleeve up to reveal bare skin, and _freaking stabbing him with a needle, Sam, are you joking!_

Dean yelped and tried to roll away, but Sam held steady. The pain in his arm shot up his nerves, and he turned his head enough to retch emptily on the tile floor. Sam was apologizing, rubbing the spot where he'd jammed the needle in, claiming it just needed a minute.

The second he could control his arms and legs he was so puking all over the kid again.

He didn't know how long he lay there, spinning in a void of pain and pressure, Sam's hand on his arm and his voice echoing over and over in Dean's head. He wanted to thrash out, chase his brother away, but he was suddenly shaken too bad to want to be left alone.

“You're all right, man. You're all right.” Sam's voice was still distorted, but Dean thought he could understand actual words in it now. “Morphine kicks in fast, just give it a moment.”

Dean pried his eyes open. The towel had slipped enough that he could make out one of his brother's shoes, where Sam was sitting cross-legged next to him. “S'mmy?”

“I'm right here, Dean.” Sam's hand on his arm moved to his shoulder, gently rubbing back and forth over his twisted muscles. “I'm sorry, man, I didn't mean to be so hard on you. I didn't know you got migraines.”

He wanted to laugh it off. To protest that only nerds got migraines, but he was clearly the example that you didn't need a big brain to overtax it. Whatever he tried to say—and he wasn't even sure it was actual words—came out as a whimper. Sam shifted over, pulling him up enough to rest Dean's head on his lap and cover his eyes with the towel again.

“It's all right, Dean. We'll ride it out. I'm right here.”


	27. Okay, Who Had Natural Disasters On Their 2020 Bingo Card? (Extreme Weather)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean are stranded in a snow storm when their car goes off the road...good thing there’s an angel on their shoulder.

“Dean, we really should turn back,” Sam complained again.

“You doubting my girl?” Dean shot back. He patted the dashboard sympathetically. “Baby's seen us through a lot worse than this, Sammy. She'll get us through.”

“It's not the—the car,” Sam gasped, clinging to the frame as the Impala shuddered to the right again. “It's the road!”

“Sam is right,” Cas butted in.

“No backseat driving,” Dean retorted. He twisted just enough to give Cas a look before Sam yelped something about the road and he had to focus again. Jeez, not like he hadn't been driving since he was twelve. Plus the tires were new...well, they had been two years ago, and it's not like they drove around as much as they used to.

“Tree! Tree! Tree!”

“I see it,” Dean snapped. Sam wasn't helping. Bad enough that they were trying to make it back to the highway in the middle of a stupid blizzard, having Mr Doom next to him and Mr Pessimism in the back seat was just icing on the cake.

Ha. _Icing_.

“Just a few more miles,” he called over the howl of the wind. The highway would be in better shape that this little access road, and the kids in the car could stop whining then. They could make it to a decent town with a decent hotel, maybe even an attached bar, instead of going back to Podunk Sally's Rooming House for another night among the antimacassars.

It is a truth to be universally acknowledged...that black ice just isn't fair.

The Impala's front tires skidded sideways, and when he feathered the brakes to correct he felt the back end of the car keep drifting. Dean bit down on a curse as he frantically spun the wheel into the skid but it was too late. He thought he heard someone shout his name and they were spinning, sliding off the road.

There was pressure on his right shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise, when the car finally slid to a stop nose-deep in the ditch. It was Cas, leaning up over the seat enough to brace a hand on Sam and Dean's shoulders, his own feet planted in the back.

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam panted out. “How do we get out of here?”

Dean was already cranking the engine again, not that it would do much. He couldn't drive out of a nose-dive into the ditch, but maybe they could have heat for the night. The engine revved and tried to turn over, but she just wouldn't start. He smacked the steering wheel and leaned his head back. “I'm out of ideas.”

“Wait here.”

“What?” Sam was already turning in the seat. “Cas, we're halfway in the ditch, you'll never...”

But the angel simply levered the door open, somehow, and vanished in a swirl of snow and trench coat. He didn't even bother to shut the door again. “C'mon, Sammy, never tell him the odds,” Dean quipped. Damn, this was worse than Podunk Sally's, even without the antimacassars. At least Sally had made a killer hot toddy.

The metal shrieked around them, and before Dean could fully comprehend what was happening the Impala was dragged slowly out of the ditch onto the road. He spun around in his seat, trying to see through the blinding snow to the solitary figure at the back of the car, but it was too dark.

Slowly, steadily the car was pulled out and around to the side of the road. It was still tilted at an angle—apparently Cas had opted for leaving her on the shoulder instead of the middle of the road, which was sensible—and the angel climbed back in the car. “We're no longer in the ditch,” he observed with typical flatness.

“No kidding,” Dean breathed. Cas didn't show his strength like that too often so it was easy to forget what exactly his friend was, but that was incredible. “Don't suppose you could push us all the way to the next service station?”

Sam slapped him on the upper arm. Yeah, that was probably rude. The dude had just expended a massive amount of energy pulling them out of the ditch. “All right. So. Guess we're walking to civilization?”

“There was an old mailbox about half a mile back,” Sam suggested as he twisted in the seat to look into the darkness behind them. “Even if it's abandoned it would at least be shelter. Storm knocked the phones out, but maybe we can call in the morning,” he added, waving his own device.

“I concur,” Cas said—because of course he concurred and couldn't just agree this time. “Even minimal structure will provide better protection from the elements. We should move quickly before the two of you are further exposed.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “And you didn't even buy me dinner,” he joked as he piled out of the car along with Sam. They stopped back at the trunk for the basics, and at Sam's urging he left most of the weapons behind and focused on what would help them survive a blizzard for a night.

Cas ended up taking most of the load, pulling the bags right out of Sam and Dean's hands. “We should hurry,” he said simply before striking off through the snow for the old mailbox Sam had mentioned.

“How do you know you're going the right way?” Dean called, fighting through the snow to keep up. “Maybe we got spun all the way around.”

“I don't get lost, Dean,” Cas replied. “I have an excellent sense of direction.”

Right, right. He'd heard that one before. Dean rolled his eyes at Sam, but Sam had his arms wrapped tightly around his middle and his brow furrowed in concentration. Probably calculating how much food they had and whether it would last them long enough to be rescued.

Maybe they could eat Cas. Did it count as cannibalism if he technically wasn't human?

Dean's thoughts were interrupted when he nearly ran into the angel in question. “Cas?”

“We have reached the mailbox,” Cas explained over the rising wind.

“Great!” Dean stuffed his hands in his armpits and stomped his feet. Damn, it was cold. “Which way to the house?”

Cas pointed. Dean craned his neck in that direction and thought he could see the vague outline of a building. “You sure?”

“It appears to be a dilapidated single-wide trailer,” Cas replied. “I do not sense any life forms beyond the expected vermin, so it should be safe for the night.”

Ew. Dean tried to smile, but the thought of spending the night with a bunch of rats made him miss Podunk Sally's even more. “Lead the way!”

Cas swiveled and started off at a right-angle to the road. Dean waited for Sam to start moving before falling into line behind his brother. Why hadn't he noticed Sam didn't have a heavy coat on before they left? The poor dude had to be half frozen by now.

The angel's predictions were correct, and before too long they found themselves in front of a half-rotted single-wide trailer. One end had some bad smoke damage, but on the plus side the windows were boarded up, so that meant it had to be a little insulated. Cas took charge as he had at the car and simply tugged the door open, stepping back into the snow to help the Winchesters climb into the trailer's dark interior. Dean would have protested that he could climb up on his own, but in truth he was losing feeling in his fingers and welcomed the assist.

The inside was...well, about what could be expected. There was no furniture except a couple of kitchen chairs with no seats, and the whole place smelled terrible. Still, it was out of the wind, and in that moment that was heavenly.

Somehow Cas got the door closed again, then moved around the brothers setting their supplies out. “You should change into dry clothing,” he said over his shoulder. “I will see about a fire.”

Dean nodded, though he wasn't sure he had enough feeling in his fingers for that. Inside the trailer was better than the outside, but that wasn't saying much. It was still cold, even worse since night had sunk in with prejudice. He was shivering so hard he was pretty sure he was gonna have whiplash after this.

Cas straightened up, seeming to realize their predicament. “Wait a moment,” he said, almost gently, and rested a hand on each of their shoulders. Dean felt a rush of healing warmth fill his body, banishing the deadly cold from their walk in the snow. He gave a sigh of relief as Cas's touch warmed his body without that awful pins-and-needles stage he usually felt in between.

“Thanks, man,” he said.

“Dry clothes,” Cas reminded him. “I apologize I could not dry what you are wearing.”

“Are you kidding?” Sam burst in. He was already stripping out of his wet jacket and shirts. “Cas, that was amazing. That was more than enough.”

“Sammy's right,” Dean added. He managed to shift around the clothes just enough to make sure Sam could get the warmest stuff. “This was big, dude.”

Cas tilted his head, but that was the equivalent of a long conversation to him. “I should be able to gather plenty of fuel from the damaged end of the trailer,” he said, gesturing to the part that was burned. “I suggest the two of you find the best place to fortify against the cold for the night.”

Dean threw him a salute. “On it!”

Sam rolled his eyes, of course, but as soon as he was dressed in the warm clothing Dean had sneakily picked out for him he joined his brother in investigating what was left of the trailer.

There was a small bedroom that was fairly undamaged, with only one window that was still pretty heavily boarded up. There were a few cracks between the boards, but Dean took care of that by just stuffing his wet socks into them. They could still feel a little of the wind coming through, but it was much better than it had been.

Cas returned with an armful of wood as the brothers were moving the bags into the small room. He studied it closely and nodded to himself. “I will return with an appropriate vessel to contain the fire.”

He was gone before the others could question him. Dean heaved out a dramatic sigh and tugged a blanket free of one of the bags, wrapping it behind himself so he could lean against the wall without touching it. “He's still such a weird little dude,” he commented.

“He's probably saving our lives tonight,” Sam retorted, a little sharply.

Dean waved in acknowledgment. “I'm grateful, yeah. Doesn't make him any less weird. I mean, he's pulled my ass out of the fire how many times? Guess he gets to add pulling it out of the ice now.”

“Is it even safe to build a fire in here?”

“Safer than freezing to death.”

They were quiet for a few moments before hearing the front door bang open again. Dean sat up straight and reached for his gun, which he realized belatedly was across the room, but it was just Cas. Cas and what looked like an old, battered barbecue grill.

“It's not ideal,” Cas explained. The grill—one of those round ones on the little tripods—had definitely seen better days. Cas efficiently knocked the legs off and pried the lid away, leaving them with a metallic bowl a little more than a foot across. Cas immediately began layering kindling and pieces of wood in the old grill.

“Do you have a lighter?” Sam asked, patting at his pockets frantically. “I don't have mine.”

Dean swore. “Might be with the wet stuff in the main room,” he said, struggling out of the blanket.

Cas rested his hand on the pile of wood in front of him, and when he pulled it away there was a small fire burning away.

“Dude!” Dean leaned back with a laugh. “You some kind of Boy Scout?”

Cas tilted his head, but Sam interrupted before the angel could react. “This is awesome, Cas. Thank you so much.”

Sam leaned forward, holding his hands out to the small flame. The fire grew to consume the wood in the old half-grill, but didn't spread out of it to the room beyond. Smoke might be a problem at some point, but Dean was pretty sure there were enough holes in the rest of the house that they'd be fine. Just have to set a watch to make sure no one got sick.

“Thanks man,” he added after a minute, looking up at Cas...who looked terrible. Snow was melting on his coat and his face was almost gray. He was hunched over himself, staring at the growing flames of the campfire. “Cas?”

It seemed to take some effort, but Cas finally looked up at him. Dean understood. Pulling the car back onto the road, forging the way through the storm, then everything he'd done to warm the brothers up since...Cas was beat. “Looks like you need some dry clothes,” Dean observed.

Cas stared down at what he was wearing, his frown deepening when he realized it was still wet. “I merely need a few minutes to rest.”

“We're not going anywhere until morning,” Sam cut in. “There's plenty of dry stuff here, you might as well be comfortable.”

Cas hesitated, but finally accepted the duffle bag Sam pushed toward him. He changed so fast Dean was pretty sure he'd just mojo'd the dry clothes on, but at least he looked a little more comfortable.

“All right, I got first watch,” Dean said after a minute or so. “The two of you get some rest.”

“I don't require sleep, Dean,” Cas replied.

“Just...humor me?” Dean waved a hand. “You've done all the heavy lifting—literally. Just take a couple hours to recharge, okay?”

Cas frowned down at his own knees, but that was probably the best Dean was going to get. Sam was already wrapping himself up in a couple of blankets until he looked like a moose burrito. “Wake me in four hours,” he said. Cas started to protest, but Dean agreed before the angel could say much of anything.

“Sleep tight, Cas,” Dean insisted when the angel showed no sign of moving. “I've got it from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else want ice cream now?


	28. Such Wow. Many Normal. Very Oops. (Hunting Season)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You never learn,” Cas taunted. “Dean Winchester is right behind you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, I don't think we got enough badass Cas in that last chapter....

Splitting up was always a bad idea, but they had a lot of ground to cover and only a few hours of daylight left. Sam let his shotgun rest against his shoulder as he scanned the area for any sign of their quarry—signs pointed to hellhound, and since Rowena wasn't letting any deals get called in this one was probably going rogue. Dean and Cas weren't too far away, and it wasn't like this hellhound had actually killed anyone yet, but he still hated splitting up.

“Where are you?” Sam muttered as he pushed his glasses further up his nose. That was the other thing he hated: the hellhound-spotting spectacles Dean had given him were way too big. He was pretty sure the lenses were wider than his own head, and the frames themselves were covered in rhinestones. Sam was so burning them as soon as they got home.

He turned a corner into a small clearing and pulled up short at the sight of a handful of park rangers gathered around the map board deep in discussion. Sam tried to back away quietly but one of them had already seen him and had dropped into a firing stance, gun out.

“Lower the weapon!” the ranger demanded. “On your knees, hands behind your head!”

“Hey, no problem,” Sam held his hands out and slowly sunk to his knees, placing the shotgun out away from his body. This was bad. No one was supposed to be out here today. “I don't want any trouble.”

“Hunting without a license?” The first ranger demanded.

“What?” Sam squinted up at him. “No, no, we're not hunting.” Not like that anyway. If they knew the kinds of things that lurked in the dark they wouldn't be trying to stop him right now.

“Looked like it to me,” another ranger replied. He gave Sam's pockets a cursory pat down and tugged the knife out of the sheath on his belt. “We'll have to take you down to the station.”

Sam's eyebrows raised. “For lack of a hunting license?” He hadn't taken the time to check up on hunting permits for this, but he was pretty sure they were going too far.

The ranger who'd been searching Sam wrenched his arms behind his back with almost inhuman strength before slapping handcuffs on his wrists. Sam winced as the cuffs were tightened down more than necessary, then the ranger settled a hand on his shoulder to keep him kneeling. Well. This was embarrassing.

“Sam?” Cas's voice echoed down another of the branching paths. “The trail's gone cold, I think we need to....” The angel's voice trailed off as he came into view and took in the sight in the clearing. Sam on his knees, hands behind his back, surrounded by five park rangers.

One of the rangers hissed and Sam looked up to see the man's eyes flick to black. “Angel.”

Cas already had his blade out. He didn't bother with a reply and just flung the blade, end over end, so that it buried itself in the chest of the demon holding Sam down.

The other demons charged. Sam dropped to the ground and tried to roll out of the way, bumping into the corpse of the dead demon. He twisted around to try to get his hands on the grip of Cas's angel blade, even if he couldn't break his own cuffs he could at least get the weapon back to his friend.

The first demon that reached Cas took a swipe at him with his bare hands. Cas ducked back from the swing, then swept his leg around to catch the demon behind the knee just as his hand came up under the demon's chin. There was a flare of celestial light and the demon's smoking corpse slumped to the ground.

Down to three.

One demon dove for Sam's shotgun, coming up onto one knee to fire at Cas. Salt and silver did nothing to an angel, however, so the demon tossed that away with frustration and pulled out his meatsuit's pistol. Those rounds had more impact, and though Sam knew they couldn't actually hurt Cas they did make him stagger back.

Right into the grasp of another demon. It had Cas by his right wrist and the back of his trench coat and flung him around into a tree, twisting his arm up and behind. The third demon came up with a heavy rock and brought it down with an audible _crack_ against Cas's right arm.

The demons danced away and Cas slumped to the ground, cradling his broken arm. “Can't smite what you can't touch,” one demon taunted.

Cas glared up at him balefully, through the blood streaming out of a cut on his forehead. He threw himself forward and up, using the momentum from standing to barrel into the demon. Cas's left hand latched onto the demon's face, another burst of holy light burning the creature out of existence.

“I have two hands,” Cas snarled.

Sam finally wrenched the angel blade out. “Cas!” He tried to climb to to his feet but a demon was there, dropping him back to the ground with a kick to the stomach. The other demon had pulled out his own gun and was firing at Cas—unfortunately this one had better aim and was nailing the angel in his broken arm. The angel gave a cry of pain and sank to one knee, hunched over his injury as the other demon charged in for more physical attacks.

He couldn't see much after the demon kicked him a few more times and wrenched the angel blade out of his hand, but Sam soon found himself hauled back up to his feet with the angel blade held to his throat.

Cas, looking bloody and bruised, finally managed to pin the demon he was fighting and smite it, though he slumped over in apparent exhaustion when he was finished. Then he looked up, wiped the blood off his chin with the sleeve of his trench coat, and forced himself to his feet. “Let the boy go.”

Boy. Really. Why was it Dean and Cas couldn't understand that Sam was a grown-ass man?

“I don't think so,” the demon sneered. “One step closer and pretty boy here gets it.”

Cas glowered at him. He was still holding his right arm close to his body, and Sam could see that the break hadn't healed yet. His eyes flickered to the side almost imperceptibly, then a smiled spread across his face, made ghoulish by the blood staining his teeth.

“What?” the demon demanded. “What are you smiling about.”

“You never learn,” Cas taunted. “ _Dean Winchester is right behind you._ ”

The demon stiffened, then Sam flinched away from its cry of pain as the tip of an angel blade appeared through its neck. Sam pulled himself free and stumbled away from the demon, staring blankly as his brother emerged from the undergrowth with an angel blade in his hand.

“Good timing, Cas,” Dean commented. He wiped the angel blade off on his pants before shoving it into the back of his belt. “Dude, what's with your arm?”

Cas let out a groan. “Give me a moment,” he said through clenched teeth. He grabbed his wrist with his other hand and _wrenched_ and Sam could swear he heard the bone snap back into place. Cas stared down at his newly-healed arm and flexed his fingers then nodded in satisfaction and looked up.

“And you're, like, covered in bullet holes,” Dean added as he started undoing the cuffs on Sam's wrists.

The angel heaved out a sigh and looked down at his clothes. “Repairing these is growing tiresome,” he admitted. Sam had to agree—it seemed like the monsters they went up against went out of their way to trash Cas's clothes sometimes.

“We should set you up with a new wardrobe,” Dean offered, holding up the empty cuffs in triumph. Sam took a step away from his brother to rub his wrists gingerly. He'd really only gotten bumps and bruises in the whole fight, while Cas looked like he'd been dragged through a wood chipper. “Little less tax accountant, little more hunter, right?”

Cas raised his eyebrows, scanning Dean up and down. “I am not so desperate to resort to dressing like a lumberjack.” Then, in a swirl of leaf-stained trench coat, he was heading back down the trail toward the car. Dean spluttered for a moment, staring at Sam and gesturing toward Cas like he couldn't believe what just happened.

Sam clapped his brother on the shoulder. “He has a point, Dean.” Then he followed after Cas, stopping along the way to pick up his shotgun and knife. Dean was still spluttering as Sam jogged to catch up with Cas.

“But it's a _stupid_ point!”

  
  



	29. I Think I Need a Doctor (Intubation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 28, 2006. A pagan god’s attempt to erase Castiel’s existence may just give the angel a chance to save them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, *you're* using Whumptober as a chance to try out all the AU fanfics you've thought of!

“ _I can't get him back...”_

“ _Vitals are dropping...”_

“ _Wife was DOA...”_

“ _How's the kid? She okay?”_

“ _Dammit. Call it.”_

“ _Time of death...”_

Castiel sucked in a breath and sat upright, dislodging the doctor that had recently been trying to restart his heart. One of the nurses screamed, the machines around him beeped crazily. There were tubes in his mouth and arms and he tugged at them despite the hands holding him down.

Where was he? _When_ was he? The last thing he remembered was a cave...the light of torches...a man with three face staring down at him.

 _You will be unmade this way_.

He twisted away from the hands that were trying to restrain him, snapping off cables and wires and tubes. He had to think, to process. It wasn't 2020 anymore, he could tell by the feel of the world around him.

“Mr. Novak, please, you've been in an accident,” a man in a surgeon's mask was talking to him, trying to push him back down. “Please, you have to calm down and let us take care of you.”

Castiel stared at him and the others in the room. “What...date?” His voice was hoarse and raspy from the tubes he'd pulled out (now he remembered...Dean talked about it...always cough when they pull the tube out).

“You want to know the date?” one of the nurses asked. She was trying to straighten out the wires still attached to his chest. “It's September...September 28.”

“What year?” he demanded.

She blinked at him, puzzled, as the doctor finally managed to wrap a blood pressure cuff around Castiel's arm. “It's 2006.”

* * *

_The light from the torches was dancing off the glyph drawn onto the floor of the cave. Norn stared down at his work with a satisfied air, then turned to face the angel he'd bound to the stone._

“ _We cannot touch the hunters,” Norn explained. “They are tied too closely to fate. But you, young one. Your bounds are not as tight.”_

_Castiel struggled against the ropes, but the knots were too tight. “You're going to kill me?” he demanded._

“ _Kill? No. You will be unmade.” Norn knelt down to touch the center of the glyph. He'd painted the innermost circle of characters in Castiel's blood, and now the lines were beginning to glow under his hand. “I can remove one small player, before one critical moment, and your fate will deviate.”_

_Norn looked up, his eyes as fathomless as the broad expanse of the stars. “Another will take your place, and the story will change. Perhaps the ending will be better, perhaps it will be worse. This is all I can do.”_

_The power flared._

_Castiel fell backward._

* * *

“Mr Novak!”

Castiel pushed his way through the hospital staff. He didn't need their poking and prodding. Somehow he had been pulled back in time and stuffed into the body of his host, long before Jimmy would have ever heard his voice. He couldn't explain it—there was no soul in this body, no occupant to invite him in. Just an empty vessel.

He couldn't worry about that now. If Norn, the Norse god (or, rather, three-fold aspect) of time learned that this had happened, he might move through time himself to eliminate the Winchesters directly.

Castiel narrowed his focus, finding the bright flare of two souls he hadn't seen in a very long time. Sam and Dean. Before he'd hidden them from heaven, before either of them had gone to hell, when their souls were bright and pure and whole. Unfortunately it seemed he had been moved through time as himself, rather than regressing through it, so he did not have the sames powers from 2006.

No wings. But he could run.

There was shouting behind him, swearing. Calls for security, for assistance. On he ran, focusing on the souls of the brothers he knew so well.

He found Sam easily. Even fourteen years ago the man still stood head and shoulders above the others. He was leaning in a doorway, distress obvious in every line of his body. Castiel slowed to a stop, resting a hand on the young man's arm. “Sam?”

Sam twisted to look down at him, tears running down his face. “Bad time,” he gasped out, turning back to stare into the room. Castiel turned to stare with him and froze in horror.

Dean was on the bed, more doctors (how many did this hospital have?) working around him. But beyond that, Castiel could see into the spiritual plane. Dean's spirit was there, fighting the shadow of a reaper.

He knew what this was. This was the day Heaven set their final plan into motion. This was the day John Winchester would sacrifice himself for his son, setting off a chain of events that would culminate in Sam opening the seal to the Cage. The Apocalypse. The end of times.

Without another thought Castiel surged forward. He forced his way in between the doctors, using brute strength to reach Dean's side even as they tried to stop him. The reaper twisted to stare at him, Tessa's mind calling out to his.

_Castiel?_

“I'm here,” he growled and finally rested his hand on Dean's forehead. Whatever strength he had, whatever healing could muster, he channeled it all into his friend's body. Dean jerked beneath him, buckling up on the bed with a gasp of breath, and the doctors were swarming around him again. Castiel waiting until Dean's eyes—dazed but clear—finally met his...then he collapsed backward, darkness rushing in on him.

* * *

“They said his name's Jimmy Novak,” Sam said. Dean was leaning in the doorway, watching the guy who'd gone all 'touched by an angel' on him not half an hour ago as he slept off a raging fever. “He and his family arrived early this morning. Car accident.”

“His family?” Dean asked. The guy looked a little familiar, sure, but Dean couldn't quite explain why.

“Ah, let's see...yeah, wife didn't make it. He has a daughter, they're not sure about her either.”

“You said he came running to my room?”

“Yeah,” Sam closed his notebook and tucked it into his back pocket. “How do you feel?”

Dean shrugged. “Fine, I guess. Like nothing happened.” The doctors couldn't explain it. He'd come in unresponsive, between the car accident and the wounds inflicted by the yellow-eyed demon. Then this Jimmy guy had touched him and it was all gone. No bumps, no scratches...his old scars were gone, too. “Where's Dad?”

“He's talking to Bobby. Checking lore on the Colt, I think.”

He nodded. Dad had stopped by to say a few words, though he was pretty sure the older man was feeling ashamed for getting possessed by yellow-eyes. He'd probably take off again before too long, bury himself in a hunt or a bottle until the feelings went away.

After a moment of indecision Dean pushed himself off the doorway and made his way into Jimmy's room. The dude was restless, dark hair matted on his forehead, talking to himself in some weird language while he thrashed around on the bed.

Dean stared down at him, arms folded. The guy didn't look like much. Smaller than Dean, built like an accountant. Exactly the kind of guy who had a corporate job and 2.5 kids, not some kind of mystical faith healer who showed up when you were coding out.

Jimmy stilled, turning toward Dean, and opened his eyes. The guy liked to stare, that was for sure. The first thing Dean remembered after waking up was this guy staring at him. “I guess I owe you a thank-you,” Dean finally said.

The other man relaxed, still staring at him. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean frowned. They weren't using those names here. “How did you know that?”

Jimmy sighed and brought one hand up to rub across his eyes. “There is much I need to tell you, Dean Winchester.”

Okay, that was creepy. Maybe Sam had let his first name slip, but not the Winchester part. “Who are you?”

The man lowered his hand and stared at Dean again. “My name is Castiel.”

Okay...that was a little creepier. Sammy had said this guy was Jimmy Novak...the patient information on the door said he was Jimmy Novak. “All right,” Dean said, shifting around to rest both hands on the rail at the side of the bed. “Maybe I should be asking _what_ are you?”

For some reason, that brought a hint of a smile to Jimmy's—to _Castiel's_ face. “I'm an angel of the lord.”


	30. Now Where Did That Come From? (Injury Reveal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (AU of S12e23 "All Along the Watchtower") Lucifer battles Sam, Dean, and Castiel for control of his unborn child.

“Dean! Stop it! You're no match for him!” Sam held on to his brother's coat, bodily holding him back from the rift to Apocalypse World. Cas had stayed behind to hold Lucifer off, to give them a chance, and even though Sam feared for their friend's safety as much as Dean he knew it would all be for nothing if they just piled back through.

The rift flared. Sam tensed, ready to turn and run for the house, but Cas stumbled through.

“Cas,” Dean's voice was almost a whisper and he slumped against Sam. Cas looked shaken but whole, and opened his mouth as though to say something.

Air gurgled out instead as the tip of an angel blade suddenly protruded through his chest, a few inches to the right of his heart. Lucifer's face appeared above Cas's right shoulder, face twisted in a sneer.

“Now, how did that get there?”

“ _No!_ ” Dean broke away from Sam and rushed at the devil, only for Lucifer to yank the angel blade out and kick Cas's body at Dean. Sam pulled his own blade out of the back of his belt but knew he'd be no match, even as Lucifer stalked up to him.

“Where were we, Sammy?” Lucifer asked, almost teasingly. “Right, right. You were going to hand over my son, and I wasn't going to remind you what color your intestines are.”

Sam's gaze flickered to Dean, who was up on his knees with his hands pressed to Cas's chest. Was Cas alive? After an angel blade through the chest?

“Uh-uh,” Lucifer sidled around, between the brothers. “No hints from the peanut gallery.”

They were out of options. The plan had been to seal Lucifer on the other side of the rift, which was swiftly closing. There wasn't a backup. Nothing to stop Lucifer taking his son and decimating them all. “We can't,” Sam offered weakly. Even if it meant death, they had to stand up to the devil.

Lucifer sighed, tilting his head to study Sam. “How about if I spear big brother in the back, hmm? Pin him to old Cassie there? You know...together in death and all that?”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean spat, Cas's blood coating his hands. Lucifer barely jerked his head and Dean dropped to the ground, clutching at a long gash that had opened on his side.

“Frankly I don't know why I'm asking,” Lucifer continued, as though Dean hadn't interrupted him. He advanced on Sam, freezing the hunter in place, bloodied angel blade tapping thoughtfully against his chin. “Guess I just want one more guy's night out before I have to be all, you know... _Daddy_.”

“Get away from my boys!”

No, no, no. Sam managed to look to the side just enough to see his mother emerging from the house, gun leveled at Lucifer. He tried to tell her to run—maybe she had enough time to get in one of the cars and get away while the devil was distracted.

“Is this your mother?” Lucifer asked, practically giddy. “Oh, wow, I've wanted to meet you. The woman who sold her children to Azazel to save the love of her life. How's that going for you?”

Mary barely flinched, holding the gun steady as she advanced. “Drop the blade and back away.”

Lucifer chuckled and glanced over at Sam. “Isn't she adorable? Oh, I could just eat her up.” His eyes flashed red and he brought up his free hand, fingers held ready to snap.

Dean was on him in the next moment. Lucifer roared in fury as Dean jammed his own angel blade into the devil's shoulder, then the hunter was flying across the yard to strike a tree with an audible _crack_. “Why is he always in my way?” Lucifer demanded. He turned to glare at Dean, and in the faint light from the house Sam thought he could see the shadows of enormous wings. “Tell you what. Just this once—as a treat for me—I'm ending big brother first.”

He stalked toward Dean, blade in one hand and the other balled into a fist.

Mary struck next.

Sam didn't know where his mom had gotten the Enochian knuckles, but she landed a right hook that actually knocked the devil back a few steps. “I said,” she repeated, following up with a second blow to the devil's abdomen, “get away from my boys.”

Lucifer snarled and grabbed her by the collar of her jacket, whirling around to send her flying behind him...right into the rift. She vanished through it in a flash of light. The devil stared, then shrugged his shoulders. “That was easy.”

But it was Sam's turn. Lucifer's control had lapsed, which meant he was no longer holding Sam in place. Sam lowered his shoulders and charged, intending to catch the devil just under the ribcage and tackled them both back into the rift. It was starting to close now...he'd be trapped on the other side with Lucifer, but that was better than letting the devil loose in the world with his nephilim son.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans. There was a flash of brilliant orange light from the house, accompanied with a shockwave that shook the ground around them. Lucifer stumbled back a couple of steps toward the rift and Sam tripped just shy of tackling the devil. Instead he plowed into Lucifer, losing his own forward momentum, but still enough to send the fallen archangel the last few steps into the ever-shrinking rift.

Lucifer gave a last cry of rage before he was swallowed by the rift...and the rift itself vanished.

Sam lay on the ground, panting for breath, staring at the empty air where the rift had once been. Lucifer was gone, trapped in the other world...with their mother.

“Sammy?”

Dean. Sam pushed himself to his feet, staggering a little, and limped toward his brother. “Dean?”

“Get...get Cas,” Dean waved him off. The older Winchester was slowly picking himself up, though he was obviously hurting. “He was...he was still alive. When Lucifer...”

Cas lay crumpled on the beach, blood and grace leaking out of the wound in his chest...but no wing prints in the sand. Sam dropped to his knees next to the angel and bunched up a handful of trench coat to press against the wound.

This was bad. Angel blade wounds were tough to heal, and even if the initial damage hadn't killed Cas the wound itself might. “What do we do?” he asked, voice shaking, as Dean limped over to them.

Dean was holding himself stiffly, one arm braced across his chest. Probably a few broken ribs from impacting the tree. He shook his head, lowering himself to the sand. “If we had another angel, maybe...I don't know.”

His brother's voice sounded so helpless. Sam shook his head. “Don't give up on him,” he said. “He's come through worse.”

Dean was staring at the place where the rift had been. “She's really gone.”

“Dean!”

He flinched and turned to Sam. His eyes were dazed, unfocused. Sam mentally added concussion to the list of Dean's injuries. “Do we have anything in the house? First aid kit? Bandages?”

“I...” Dean was fighting to pull himself together. “I'll go see.” He turned to stand, then almost fell back. “Sam?”

Sam glanced over his shoulder, then half-turned in shock. There was a man standing behind them. He couldn't see much beyond a dark silhouette and a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

“Sam, why is he naked?”

Sam filed that under things to think about later. “Are you...Jack?”

The man stepped closer, coming under the street light behind the house. Now Sam could see that...yes, he was naked, as Dean had said, but he was also fairly young. Still too old to have just been born, but he wouldn't put anything past the son of the devil.

Jack—he thought it might be Jack—calmly walked up and knelt between the brothers without a word. He looked down at Cas for a long moment then held one hand out over the angel's chest. His hand began to glow, his eyes flared out even brighter, and Castiel sucked in a breath. Cas curled on his side, coughing, and Dean hunched over him to check his injuries.

“Who did this?” Jack asked, turning to face Sam. There was something otherwordly about him—well, that was probably obvious, being an archangel's nephilim son and all—somehow ancient and childlike at the same time.

“Your...your father,” Sam replied. Lying might be a bad idea until they had a better idea of who Jack was.

Jack frowned. “ _This_ is my father,” he replied, looking back down. “My father is Castiel. Who hurt him?”

Again, those golden eyes were fixed on Sam's face. Sam glanced over to see Dean slowly helping Cas sit up. The angel was obviously weakened, but the wound in his chest was no longer glowing.

“Jack?”

At Cas's voice Jack twisted around. There was a long moment where the nephilim regarded his angelic protector, then he was pitching forward to wrap his arms around Cas. “You're really here.”

Cas's face was pained, but Sam could see real joy in the angel's eyes as he returned the nephilim's embrace. “I gave your mother my word,” he replied.

Sam rocked back on his heels. So. They had Lucifer's kid, who had imprinted on Cas in the womb or something. Mom was in Apocalypse World. Lucifer was in Apocalypse World. And if someone didn't see to Dean's concussion soon he'd probably be sick and ruin the moment.

“Let's get inside,” Sam suggested. He stood to his feet and helped Dean up, steadying his brother when he stumbled to the side. “We have a lot to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one day left!


	31. Today's Special: Torture (Whipping)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy was coming. His brother would find him. He always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally at the end!
> 
> Content warnings for torture in this one. Dean is tortured and it's bad. See the tags for specifics if you need to be careful with something.

Cold water struck him in the face, bringing him back out to consciousness with a splutter. His eyes darted around for a few moments before he relaxed. Same place before he'd passed out. On his knees, shirtless, hands chained above him, at the mercy of a band of assholes.

“Don't pass out on us, Dean.”

The voice was the same cultured, smarmy accent he'd been hating for years now. While they'd sent a strong enough message to the British Men of Letters after blowing up their compound, it seemed like some of them just weren't listening.

“I'll ask again,” Morrigan said, heels clicking as she walked around to stand behind him. “The door to Heaven. Where is it?”

Dean spat out a mouthful of water tinged with blood. “Did you check up your own ass? Might have left it there.”

Morrigan sneered. She rested her hands on his shoulders, nails digging in, and pressed down so that his own weight pulled on the cuffs above him. “You should show us a little more respect.”

He actual laughed. “Dude, I've had _literal angels_ say that, and that still didn't scare me.”

She made a sound that was somewhere between a scream and a growl and shoved him away from her. The movement pulled at his shoulders, but it wasn't as bad as if they'd had him up on his feet. He could hear her walking around behind him, and craned his neck to see what she was going for next.

They'd started with punching. Then some kind of rubber rod that left him gasping for breath but didn't break any bones (apparently that was to give deep-tissue bruises—Morrigan wouldn't shut up about her little toys). He was swearing and spitting blood by the time they were done, but no closer to breaking.

He could hold out. Sammy would know where he was. Was probably already on the way with the cavalry.

Morrigan crouched in front of him, holding up a pair of pliers. Just the rights size for tearing off someone's fingernails.. “What will it take for you to cooperate?” She was trying to sound grieved, like it hurt her to hurt him, but it was such a transparent effort he almost laughed in her face.

“You could bite me,” Dean offered. When Morrigan flushed with anger he winked up at her.

She jeered down at him as she rose to her full height (tall for a woman, probably only four or five inches shorter than him in low heels). Morrigan stalked around behind him and grabbed one of his wrists, twisting his hand to get access to his nails. “Last chance,” she offered.

“Nah,” he retorted, steeling himself for the pain. “Not even if you bit me.”

The chain behind his knees kept him from striking out at her as she wrenched nail after nail off his hand. He bit back his cries as best he could, but he could still tell she was satisfied with his reaction.

“Wait,” Dean pleaded as she released one hand an prepared to grab the other.

“Oh?” Morrigan leaned over him, her long hair brushing his face. “Ready to talk?”

He shook his head. Sweat was pouring down his face, stinging in the scrapes along the side of his jaw. His hand _hurt_ , tips of his fingers throbbing in time to the beat of his heart. “I can't.”

They didn't owe those wingless dicks anything, but Dean knew if he caved on something like this she'd only start on the tougher questions. Where the remaining Apocalypse World refugees were, how to kill Jack, how to find Garth's family...the real, important stuff he couldn't tell. He just had to hold out on the less important questions as long as he could.

Sammy was coming. His brother would find him.

Morrigan let out a sigh and grabbed his wrist again. “They said you would cooperate,” she complained as she ripped his thumbnail off. “After forty years in hell,” _rip_ “wouldn't you have enough of torture?” _rip_ “Or would you rather I gave you the scalpel?” _rip_.

She paused, pliers on his last nail. “Would that do it for you? Taking up your old apprenticeship again?”

Shaking with pain, sweat and tears nearly blinding him, Dean grit his teeth and pulled himself up enough to answer. “Screw you.”

Morrigan was silent, but she gave him just enough time to wonder what her next move was before ripping his last nail free. “I suppose you think you're being brave,” she called over her shoulder, walking to a nearby table to drop the pliers. “What has Heaven ever done for you?”

He watched, wearily, as she picked up a different set of pliers. These were larger and sturdier, and Morrigan ran one finger over the tool with a satisfied smile.

“Well, you know,” Dean gasped out as Morrigan walked back around behind him. “Ask not what Heaven can do for you.”

She clamped the pliers over the first knuckle on his left index finger. “Please, Dean. Don't misquote your presidents at me.” There was a twist, and a crack, and he jerked against the chains around his wrists with a cry of pain. He couldn't tell if she'd broken or dislocate his finger—either way it was bad. He wanted to get away, to curl around his hands in protection, but the chains around his wrists and behind his legs held him in place.

“Some say you can die from pain,” Morrigan commented thoughtfully. She had the pliers on his other index finger now. “I wonder if that's true.”

Dean braced himself for the pain, but before it came Morrigan's watch started to beep. She dropped his hands and let out a sigh. “Damn. It's Scott's turn. Try not to break for him, Dean. I'd like another shot at this.”

Morrigan tossed her pliers onto the table and stalked out of the room, turning to the side to let a dark-haired man enter. “Looks like you got Morrigan all worked up,” Scott commented.

Dean shot the man a withering look—as withering as he could make it in his state. This was the jackass with the rubber bat. While Morrigan tried pin-point methods to break him (the acupuncture needles in their first session were quite the touch), Scott focused on doing more widespread damage. “You wanna know where the cool kids hang out, too?” he asked wearily.

“Not me, couldn't care less,” Scott replied cheerfully. He was at the table on the other side of the room, holding up a riding crop for inspection and swishing it through the air. “I'm a simple man.” He set the riding crop down and picked up a whip—the kind that was short and had multiple tails, not the long Indiana Jones kind.

“Simple,” Dean nodded, nearly laughing in despair and exhaustion. He let his head rest against one arm. “So...what, just the nuclear football?”

“I want to know about your brother,” Scott replied.

Dean froze. Adrenaline flooded his body, washing away some of the pain. “You what?”

“The 'boy with the demon blood',” Scott continued. He was running the tails of the whip through his fingers as he stared down at Dean. “What was that like.”

For a moment, Dean held the other man's gaze. Then he shook his head. “Don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you do,” Scott said. He walked around behind Dean, tails of the whip trailing along the floor. Dean could tell that it wasn't just braided leather—there were bits of metal or glass embedded in the ends. “Specifically, I want to know if you think he could still do it. You know, power up on demon blood. Because let me tell you, we'd just love to give that a try.”

“You son of a bitch, if you-” Dean's words were cut off with a cry as Scott struck. The whip tore into his skin, metal tips raking across his back. And again. And again. _And again_.

He hung against the chains, barely enough strength left to whimper, as Scott walked around to kneel in front of him. “The only words I want to hear are yes or no,” he said, almost in a scolding tone, lifting Dean's chin up with his free hand. “So. Do you think your brother would still get power from demon blood?”

Dean didn't have the strength to spit in the man's face. He was weak, shaking, pain and blood loss draining at him. He swallowed, mouth painfully dry, and worked his tongue around to get enough moisture to speak. “Screw...you,” he whispered.

Scott struck him across the face with the whip. “Have it your way,” he sneered, walking back to his table. “Have you ever been beaten with a rugby bat, Dean?” he called over his shoulder, hefting up a long, dark piece of wood. “Worse than a baseball bat. The wider surface area inflicts more pain.”

“Sammy...” he hadn't meant to say it. Sammy was coming. He always came. He was tired and hurt and wanted his brother. Wanted to be safe again.

But the Englishman shook his head in mock disappointment. “Yes or no, Dean.”

Footsteps pounded overheard. Scott stopped, cricket bat in hand, to stare up at the ceiling. “What are they doing now?” When the sound of something heavy falling made the bulb in the ceiling shake, he gave a sigh of irritation and let the bat lean against the table. “I will return in a moment.”

He never made it out the door.

The door exploded in, knocked right off its hinges. Scott gave a shout and dove for the bat he'd just set aside, but the doorway was already full of Sam Winchester. He didn't hesitate, bringing his pistol up in a two-handed grip and firing into the Englishman. Even with a silencer the shots were deafening, not stopping until Scott lay sprawled on the floor in a spreading circle of blood.

“Dean!” Sam shoved his gun into the back of his belt and rushed forward. “Oh my god...”

Even through the pain, Dean couldn't pull the smile off his face. “Took you...long enough.”

“Don't try to talk,” Sam rested one hand on Dean's face, studying the welts left by the whip, then stretched up to loosen the chain around his wrists. “You're gonna be okay. Cas is on the way, he wanted me to wait but I had a bad feeling.

Dean fell forward, letting Sam catch his weight, even if it meant the younger Winchester had a more awkward angle to get the chain off of his legs. “S'good,” he murmured into Sam's shoulder. “Cas is good.”

The chain loosened and Dean hissed in pain as Sam tried to move him. He'd been locked in one position for so long his muscles had seized up. “Sorry, sorry, man,” Sam apologized. “Just need you to lie down, okay?”

Lying down sounded good, even if the cold floor wasn't that great. But Sam threw his own coat over Dean's battered body and scooted in close to rest Dean's head on his knee, so that was nice.

“Stay with me, okay? Don't fall asleep. Cas'll be here in ten minutes.”

Dean coughed, wincing as the motion shook his bruised muscles. Ten minutes. He could do ten minutes. Sam's hand was on his head, brushing away dirt and sweat.

Sammy had found him. He always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Another year done!
> 
> Just to get an opinion, should I add a chapter to the beginning with an index for these? Then it would be easier to just find the chapters you like.

**Author's Note:**

> Day one down! Next time: In the Hands of the Enemy (Collared)
> 
> Note: you can also follow this on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sylvanfreckles)


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